


The Ghost of You

by CosmosisJane



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Angst and Humor, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Drama, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical, Memory Loss, Mutants, NSFW, Night Terrors, Original Character(s), Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychology, Reader-Insert, Sorry Not Sorry, Swearing, X-Men References, italics abuse, slight-AU, so much dialogue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-23 01:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 92,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3750421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmosisJane/pseuds/CosmosisJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several months after the catastrophe at the Triskelion, Captain America has asked for your help finding Bucky Barnes. What starts as a simple search-and-rescue mission soon leaves you tangled up with the infamous Avengers, trading blows with HYDRA, and risking the trust and safety of your family and teammates back in Westchester.  </p><p>“This ain’t gonna end well,” Logan says, still staring out the window.</p><p>“God, you sound like Barnes,” you groan, slumping into the nearest chair. “Always so negative.”</p><p>“Just sayin’.  Someone like that… there’s no putting it all back together.  His story doesn’t get a happy ending.”</p><p>Challenge accepted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

 

"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."  
-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

 

* * *

 

"No," you reply, taking another sip of the pitch black espresso set out on the table. The drink is bitter, bright, and sharp on your tongue and you can feel the tendrils of caffeine starting to snake through your system.

"You haven't even looked at the list of—"

"Westchester—our school _—_ is no place for your agents, however assured of their loyalty you may be. We work with children; troubled children more often than not."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. is— _was_ —very well aware that you're not just running a school up there," the leather-clad man sitting across from you drawls, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his sunglasses. "We know all about your extra-curricular activities."

"Then our rejection of your proposal should make more sense, not less," you retort, placing the delicate cup back on its saucer. You look away briefly, sucking air in through your teeth. You’d been told to reveal information only as necessary, but you’re increasingly convinced that Fury believes he has the upper hand, which is both untrue and terribly annoying. “Let me tell you what _we_ know: The remaining divisions of S.H.I.E.L.D. are actively pursuing certain individuals with certain abilities, often with extreme prejudice.”

“The Inhumans aren't the same as—"

“Oh, I know. We all know that. But you are pursuing them because you feel their very nature—which isn’t so terribly different from our own—is a threat. S.H.I.E.L.D. exists, at least in theory, to negate threats.”

“All correct, and all widely available knowledge after Romanoff uploaded our files onto the internet.”

“We didn’t need to wait for the Black Widow to hang up your dirty laundry to catch a whiff of its stink,” you shoot back. “What I’m getting at is that precisely no one in Westchester is comfortable with the idea of harboring people who see _us_ as potential threats that require _negating_.”

“I take it this comes straight from the Professor?”

“His voice carries the most weight, as I’m sure you understand. But all of us—all the active members of the team—discussed it together. The people responsible for locking up—what’s the euphemism you use? Enhanced?—For locking up _e_ _nhanced_  individuals are not welcome in our home.”

Fury frowns and looks off to the side, jaw tight. He can't deny your accusation; you both know it to be true, and he can't tell you that his agency's almost single-minded focus on controlling and subduing powered people doesn't muddy the waters where his proposal is concerned. You've got him cornered, but—bless his heart—he's still trying to come up with a winning argument.

"Why are you so determined to relocate some of your people?" you ask, genuinely curious. "We understand that the agency is back up-and-running, if covertly and not with any official support. A few of your agents want off the ride?"

"Something like that. Or maybe I can see where the ride is heading and I'm doing what I can to protect the people I care about, hard as that may be for you to believe," he replies. 

"You'll have to forgive us for not being more sympathetic," you smirk. "But most of us grew up thinking people like you were the Boogeyman, only far worse, what with you being  _real_ and all. Besides, what would your agents do at Xavier's besides terrify teenagers and get in the way?"

“I appreciate your concerns about integrating S.H.I.E.L.D. agents among your students, but I’m not really interested in Xavier’s academic pursuits, to be honest. It’s his other resources that've caught my eye. We worked with the Avengers—"

“The Avengers are not mutants,” you waggle a finger at him. “Barton isn’t even enhanced, and whatever was done to Romanoff, she barely qualifies. Banner is the result of a freak accident—"

“I hear the same can be said of Dr. McCoy…”

“McCoy had active mutations before he started tinkering with his own genetic code,” you correct before continuing. “Tony Stark is a self-destructive egoistand a rumored alcoholic with a long history of making truly poor life choices. Also, his powers come from a suit of armor that he can put on and take off as he pleases. We don't have that option."

Fury chuckles, then scrubs a hand across his face. “Continue.”

“Thor is an alien who spends more time off-world than on, has a bit of a temper, and family drama that makes Parent-Guardian Visitation day at Xavier’s look like a bloody picnic with the Cleaver family.”

“You’re not nearly old enough to drop those kinds of references, young lady.”

“And then there’s the good Captain. If ever there were a man who best represents a powder keg waiting to go off, it’s Rogers.”

Fury shifts in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. “Fair enough,” he finally concedes, pulling his steepled fingers apart and motioning for the waitress to bring him his check.

“For what it's worth, we are sorry for what happened, for the good people you lost. Moral grey areas aside, all accounts indicate that you've only ever tried to do the right things for the right reasons. Fighting the good fight, as it were, and perhaps one day we'll be ready to lend a hand. At present, the situation is too nebulous for us to throw our hat in with yours. We’re still trying to keep a low public profile, hoping no one notices us for a bit longer.”

“The illusion of safety is only ever an illusion,” Fury gently reprimands, handing several bills to the hovering waitress before turning his back to her. You both wait for her to sidle away, out of earshot, before continuing.

“To be honest, I don’t disagree with you there, Director. But I am one voice amongst many, and most junior to boot.”

“Seniority’s a bitch,” he smirks.

“When the dust settles, and when all of the restructuring and purging is complete, you know how to reach us,” you nod, bringing the cup of espresso back to your lips for one last swallow.

“I doubt it'll be that simple, but I appreciate the gesture.”

“Of course it won't be. There’ll be conditions if your people ever extend the olive branch. Amongst other outstanding issues, that dreadful Index of yours needs to go.”

Fury just snorts and shakes his head. “Last I checked, none of your people were on it.”

“Yet. None of us are on it _yet_.”

He concedes the point before pushing away from the table. You stand as well, accepting the handshake offered.

“Safe travels, to wherever you’re headed next,” you tell him, canting your head to the side. “I’m that way,” you point back over your shoulder, in the vague direction of your bike.

"A moment more, if you don't mind. There's someone else who'd like to talk to you."

You blink, caught off guard, and slowly sit back down. A figure two tables away stands, face cloaked in the shadows of his hoodie, and approaches.

"May I?" he asks, and you immediately recognize the voice.

"Of course, _Captain,_ " you grind out, eyes narrowed at Fury as he tries—and fails—to hide his smirk. So that’s why he got so cagey when you made your observations about Rogers known.

"My part in this discussion is over,” Fury says with a shrug, saluting with two fingers against his brow. “Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch."

"I'm sure you will," you huff, drawing in a steadying breath before turning your attention to the super soldier now seated across from you. “What I said earlier—"

“Isn’t what I want to talk about,” Rogers interrupts with a shake of his head. “Honestly, I’ve gotten pretty used to everyone offering their opinion on that subject.”

He clears his throat and presses his fingers against his temples. He looks haggard and harried in a way you’re not accustomed to seeing S.H.I.E.L.D.’s former poster-boy. Even in the footage from the Chitauri invasion, he’d looked hopeful and resilient, despite being thoroughly bloodied.

"What can I do for you, Captain Rogers?" you ask, forcing a gentle quality into your voice that doesn't always come naturally.

He drags his fingers away from his face and leans back in his chair, blowing air out in a sudden _whoosh_ that catches the attention of several nearby tables. A few cellphones come out, snapping pictures of the both of you. It's not you they recognize or care about, of course; Rogers is a bona fide celebrity. You resist the urge to both cringe and let loose a colorful litany of swear words at the nosy civilians.

“Sorry,” he offers, glancing over at the nearest table and throwing a half-hearted smile their way. “I told Fury I’d rather we meet somewhere private.”

“Like a dark alley?” you quip. “Public is better. Less chance for someone to do something purposefully stupid.”

“Me or you?” he counters, a lopsided smile creasing his face. Genuine, this time, as it reaches his eyes.

You chuckle, running the tip of one finger around the lip of the empty espresso cup. “Both, I suppose.”

“This is harder than I expected,” he admits, hunching forward, practically looming, though you figure that’s more from sheer size than conscious intent.

“You’d better not have a ring in your pocket,” you tease. “We’ve only just met.”

He laughs, looking up from beneath long lashes. He seems to consider you for a moment, then nods to himself. “I need your help. Or at least the name of someone who can.”

“You’ll need to be more specific,” you prod. “And depending on said specifics, perhaps we _should_ move this conversation elsewhere.”

Rogers plops a small silver rectangular box down on the table. At first, you think it’s some kind of StarkTech mobile, but then Rogers fiddles with it and your ears pop. Unable to suppress a hiss of surprise, you feel your body tense, the instinct to prepare for an attack momentarily overwhelming. The caffeine isn't helping matters.

“Sorry!” Rogers says, catching the sudden change in your posture. “I should have warned you. It’s a sound dampener. Or something. I usually just nod when Tony starts rambling.”

You swallow hard and command yourself to be calm. You know that your eyes—always the first to give you away—have changed. You blink a few times, waiting for the subtle itch along your corneas to signal that they’ve reverted to their normal hue.

Rogers is staring.

“Wow. Um. Fury told me, but that’s,” he stumbles over his words. “Different actually seeing it, I guess.”

“Fury doesn’t know half so much as he likes to think,” you warn, and it isn’t an idle boast. The Professor is very good at containing sensitive information, and the fact that the school wasn’t exposed when Natasha Romanoff gifted the web with all of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s files was proof enough of that.

Rogers clears his throat, “Uh, if you don’t mind my asking, does that hurt?”

“No,” you answer, trying very hard not to take offense to his casual discussion of what you consider a private matter. You drum your fingers on the table, slowly arching an eyebrow at his continued deviation from whatever it is he actually came here to discuss. “As you were saying?”

“Right. Help. Yours, if you think that’s the best option. But I’m open to suggestions. It’s Bucky.”

“Bucky.”

“James Barnes.”

“The dead Howling Commando,” you posit, still arching that brow.

Rogers winces a bit, then slowly exhales. “He’s not dead. Very few people know what I'm about to tell you, and those that do are people I trust with my life. And his.”

“I’m flattered, but again,  _we’ve just met_. You don’t know a significant thing about me, save one, and that’s only because you’re friends with the former Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“I know, I know,” he backs off, holding his hands out conciliatorily. “But I’m desperate.”

“How do you know Barnes is still alive? I'm fairly certain I remember being told that he fell off a bloody  _mountain_ from a moving train. Did some new source of information shake loose when everything else fell apart?” you ask, genuinely intrigued.

“I saw him. Fought him.”

You stare at the man across the table from you, a bit slack-jawed and in no hurry to do anything about it. “Like... _recently_?”

“This year. Just before the Triskelion, then while we brought the helicarriers down.”

“He turned?” you ask, shocked and slightly sickened.

Despite your general lack of interest in history, you had minded your lessons (especially after being enrolled at Xavier's). Practically every child in the Free World knew that Barnes had been Rogers’ best friend growing up in Brooklyn, and had saved his life on more than one occasion. He’d been hailed as one of the greatest heroes of the war. There were almost as many kids fighting to “be Barnes” in the schoolyard as there were jockeying to “be Cap” when they’d get to playing Commandos. You’d broken up several fights yourself over the designation at Xavier’s, and those kids lived with actual superheroes.

“That’s not how I’d describe it,” Rogers spits out, his face contorting as his thoughts turn dark. “After he fell, we all thought he died. No one could survive a fall from that height. But he did, and he was captured. First by the Soviets, then passed on to HYDRA. They did things to him.”

He unzips his hoodie and pulls out a battered manila folder, placing it carefully on the table. “Someone warned me not to pull on this thread, and part of me wishes I’d listened,” he says. “What kind of friend does that make me?”

You decline to answer the question, instead pulling the folder toward you and flipping the jacket open.

“There are hundreds of documents in here,” you murmur, already horrified by the few bits and pieces you catch with a quick scan. Rogers gives you a while longer to absorb more information, only electing to speak when you finally lift your eyes from the yellowed pages.

“They tortured him. Wiped his memories and replaced them with new ones. They made him into someone unrecognizable,” Rogers continues, and you can hear the rage in his voice.

“This is…” you shudder and close the folder. “This is far beyond my expertise, Captain. The records here indicate he was dosed with a poor copy of the serum Erskine developed and used on you. That explains how he survived the fall from the train and the cryogenic freezing process they used to prolong his life. But the machine they reference, the one they used to wipe his mind? That’s just… that’s not how memory works.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, taking the folder back.

“Even the most preeminent cognitive science researchers don't understand exactly how or why memories form and connect beyond observable physical changes—the appearance of new neural pathways and the like.  What _is_ understood is that unless the actual brain material is destroyed—like in certain types of traumatic brain injury—you don’t just _lose_ memories. You can’t have them wiped away. Someone with, say, dementia or severe psychological trauma may have their memory impaired because the connections between memories are disrupted or shuffled out of order, but they don’t _vanish_.”

“Right,” Rogers agrees. “I've been told something similar by Dr. Banner. That’s why I think Bucky kept hesitating. Why he didn’t kill me or let me drown in the Potomac.”

“You think he was starting to remember you?”

“Maybe. I don’t know for sure, but either way, we’ve been searching for him ever since I got out of the hospital.”

“Is he the one who put you in intensive care for two weeks?”

“Yeah, mostly, but like I said… he didn’t kill me, and he could have. He really, really could have.”

“The metal arm probably helped in that arena,” you observe, eyeing the folder now pressed beneath both of Rogers’ palms.

“Felt like getting hit with a sledgehammer,” he agrees, lifting one hand to rub his jaw.

“So after the Triskelion, he vanished?”

“Like Houdini. Even Romanoff can’t seem to pick up his trail.”

“Is it possible that whatever is left of HYDRA found him?” you ask.

“We considered that, but we’ve taken a few of their people in for questioning and none of them were able to confirm that HYDRA is even looking for Bucky. By all accounts, they were planning to _dispose_ of him once Project Insight was launched.”

You sneer. HYDRA would consider something like that routine. The disposal of a human being who had outlived his usefulness might have been discussed with as much gravity as whose turn it was to empty the bin in the break room.

“The records in that file also indicate he needed routine maintenance for the arm,” you supply. “And medical attention to address the lingering physical effects of his time in cryo, along with whatever damage he may have sustained in the field. The cycle of freezing, defrosting, the mind wipes, _and_ the missions must have racked up some serious issues, knock-off serum be damned. It’s been months since the Triskelion, Captain. Unless he’s found someone to keep him nominally functional—and that’s just in terms of his physical condition—I don’t see how he could…”

Rogers’ face falls a bit and some of the light goes out of his eyes. “I know it’s a long shot, but I have to exhaust every option. I left him at the bottom of that ravine,” he chokes and squeezes his eyes shut. “I left him behind and they took him. I can’t abandon him again. Not until I know for sure.”

You let out a long sigh and consider your options. “I have to be honest with you, Captain—"

“Steve.”

“Right. I have to be honest with you, _Steve_. I don’t think you’ll receive much help from the school’s resident psychics, if that’s what you were hoping for.”

“I wasn’t even sure you had any. There are rumors, and Fury’s made some insinuations, but—"

“Well that’s why you probably won’t have a line queuing up to help. It’s not a lack of sympathy, it's just that we're responsible for the safety of hundreds of children that this government,” you motion vaguely, “would lock away or worse if they knew half of what we're capable of. We don’t want to get involved in these sorts of things.”

“I know, but—"

“They have to come first, Steve. This world…” you look away, staring into the busy Midtown traffic crawling by. “It’s not ready for people like us. They barely accept you, and you’ve very publicly saved them from Nazis, aliens, and then HYDRA’s most recent attempt at world domination and mass murder. Not to mention the amount of government corruption you unearthed in the process. They should throw you a bloody parade.”

“They have,” he notes with a slight incline of his head.

“Point is, no one will be throwing parades for Wolverine, or Cyclops, or Storm.”

“Might help if you didn’t choose names that scare the stuffing out of small children,” he smirks.

“I’ll remember to bring that up at our next team meeting,” you answer drily.

Rogers tucks the folder back inside his hoodie and starts to stand. “Thank you for listening to all this,” he says. “And I do understand why you aren’t able to do anything. I had to try, y’know?”

He turns to walk away and you find yourself calling for him before your brain can catch up with your mouth. 

“Wait!” you slump in your seat, staring up at the narrow strip of blue sky framed by the towering buildings rising up all around. “Bloody… _shit_. Wait.”

“What are you—?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose briefly before sitting up straight again. “There is someone I know who might be able to help. She might very well murder me in my sleep if she found out I’d turned you away in your hour of need.”

“Who?” he asks, lowering himself back into his seat.

“My sister. She… It’s complicated. Her powers, that is. Not our relationship. That’s fairly straightforward. She’s not a psychic in the classical sense, but something off that ability tree. Sort of. I think.”

“I’m not following,” Rogers admits, brow creased.

You dig down into the pocket of your jeans and retrieve your cellphone. “I’ve been with her every step of the way as her powers manifested and developed, Captain, and I don’t follow entirely. Like I said, it’s complicated.”

You select her number from your contact list and wait as the phone dials. The line picks up, and the drowsy voice of your little sister warbles through.

"Hullo?"

For a moment, you forget the urgency and purpose of the call. "Ana. It's nearly noon. Why on earth do you sound like you’re still in bed?”

“It's Saturday," she reminds you.

"Hardly an excuse," you scold. "You have several reports due on Monday, one of which _I_ assigned."

"Already done. Finished them last night," she sighs into the phone. "God, you are so annoying."

"Heaven forbid you should cease reminding me. I might forget,” you snap back at her. Rogers clears his throat and you shoot him an apologetic look. "There's something I need to talk to you about, and it's serious."

"Are you going to let me and Jess go to the Justin Bieber concert?!"

"What?" you ask, wrinkling your nose. "No. God, no. I said it was serious, not outrageously stupid."

"You are the worst, you never let me—"

"I'm in the city with Steve Rogers," you interrupt, not in the mood for another teenage tantrum.

"Wh-what?"

“We’re sat at a café chatting over espressos. Well, I had an espresso. Rogers doesn’t partake, I assume."

You feel a slight tickle at the back of your skull and instantly know she’s checking the truth of your claim. Normally, that would earn her a hell of a scolding (hard to maintain any sense of privacy otherwise), but you let it go for now.

"Why are you having brunch with Captain America? Are you two…? I mean, you can't be…"

"A resounding ‘no’ on that account. The meeting was for business purposes.”

"Okay, but—"

"Can I please get to the point of this phone call?"

"Um… yes?"

“Captain Rogers has been out searching for an old friend for some time now and hasn’t had any luck locating him. You know the connections he has to certain agencies that specialize in this sort of thing, and they haven't been able to find him either, so understand that this person is either very skilled at hiding or he's being hidden by someone who is.”

“Okay,” Ana responds, and some of the girlish giddiness has gone out of her voice. Perhaps she’s picking up on your own tension, or felt it when she’d peeked inside your head. "What do you want me to do?"

“I’m a bit unclear on how your abilities work—"

“That’s because you can’t sit still long enough for me to explain!” she protests. “It’s not that confusing—”

“—but I know you can’t just zero-in on someone like the Professor does with Cerebro. However, considering the general attitude of non-intervention back home, you are the only person I can think of who might have a shot at narrowing down a search area.”

“Wait,” Ana stammers. “Who exactly is he looking for? You're purposefully avoiding that part and it's sort of important.”

You pull the phone down to your chest, muffling the receiver. “I’ll have to fill her in on some of the details. Are you okay with that?”

“As long as she promises not to post any of it to Facebook or tumblr, or whatever the kids are using these days,” Steve says with a shrug and a sly smile.

“Hello?” Ana chirps. “Did you put me on hold?”

“No. Do you remember when we took a field trip to the Smithsonian a few years ago?”

“I remember you sulking about it quite clearly,” she retorts, and you swear you can actually hear her crossing her arms and pouting.

“Yes, lovely, well if you recall, we spent an inordinate amount of time at the exhibit detailing the exploits of Captain Rogers and the Howling Commandos.”

She sighs, exasperated. “Yes. Mr. Logan got really quiet and was grouchier than usual for like, a week, afterwards.”

“He had his reasons,” you supply, cutting off that particular tangent before it gains any traction. “You remember the section about James Barnes?”

“I didn’t need to go to the Smithsonian to learn who James Barnes was,” she remarks. “Everyone knows who he was. I dressed up as him for Halloween when I was eight.”

“Only because you were Rogers the year before and I wouldn’t let you repeat the same costume,” you throw back, immediately flushing as you realize you’ve just divulged that in front of the actual Captain America.

“Seriously?” he asks, blushing.

You wave him off and return your attention to the phone call. “Do you remember how he died?”

“Yeah. He fell off a train during the mission in the Alps.”

“Right. Now for the dramatic plot twist: He didn’t die. He’s still alive.”

A long silence stretches across the line.

_“…What?”_

“Rogers ran into him again, just this year. The footage we watched of the fight in D.C.?” you ask, leading her along.

“Yeah. Lots of bad guys blowing stuff up. Captain Rogers fought a bunch of them on an overpass. Then under it.”

“You got footage of that?” Rogers asks, slightly affronted. “The government ordered a media blackout.”

“It was on the internet for about thirty seconds before the Fed shut down all the links. Once something gets loose online, you can’t really get rid of all traces. We have some very knowledgeable computer-types at home.”

At his look of continued indignation, you decide it may be best to explain a bit further.

“We were trying to determine if we needed to step in or get some of our people in the area into safe houses. The footage was initially restricted to staff and members of the team. Some of the kids got a hold of the data a few days later and were appropriately punished, I can assure you.”

“Where are you going with this?” Ana asks, increasingly annoyed by the three-way conversation going on.

“The main shooter on the overpass, the one wearing the mask, with the metal arm?”

“Yeah?”

“That was Barnes.”

She makes a noise that can only be described as a shocked sort of whimper. Barnes, like Rogers, is one of Ana’s personal heroes, idolized and revered just shy of Golden Calf territory, so to learn that he was one of those aforementioned _bad guys_...

“Oh shit,” she finally replies.

“No kidding,” you agree. “And it only gets worse.”


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 "Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

 

"You want me to find him?" she asks, after taking several long, deep breaths to steady herself. “ _The Winter Soldier_. That’s what they call him, right? You want me to find a HYDRA assassin?”

“Calm down. It’s not quite that straightforward. What I’m going to tell you absolutely must remain between us. No telling your friends, no posting about it on Facebook, not even the Professor can know,” you warn.

“You’re really serious, aren’t you? Is this going to be dangerous? For you, I mean.”

“Yes, and probably. You know I can handle myself.”

“And Captain Rogers is there. He’ll be with you when you do whatever it is you’re going to do,” she supplies, a bit of confidence seeping back into her words. “Okay. Tell me everything.”

You _do not_ tell her everything. Most of the information in the file is too horrifying to pass on to someone not even old enough to drive, so you give her a heavily-censored synopsis. You explain that while in HYDRA's custody, Barnes had undergone intense and prolonged brainwashing, and had been used like a living weapon without any say in the matter. 

You don’t mention the records detailing the horrific torture and behavior modification routines that had been designed to break a human being so thoroughly that the mere thought of rebellion would leave them practically catatonic with fear. They’d stripped Barnes of his humanity and replaced it with something violent, and ugly, and utterly compliant.

Despite your gentling, Ana is still disturbed by what you’ve elected to share. “How could anyone do that to another person?” she whispers, snuffling quietly. “He was such a good guy. Like, a _really_ good guy.”

“Agreed. It’s a horrendous thing to consider, but any attempt by you or I to understand the depravity that HYDRA is capable of would be pointless, and psychologically painful, I expect.”

“Okay.” She snuffles again, wiping her nose on what you hope is a tissue and not her sleeve.

“If you're not comfortable doing this, we don’t have to take it any further. Captain Rogers will understand, and so will I.”

“No!” she practically shouts. “No. I… If I’m really the best option you can think of, then I want to help. I have to. We can’t leave him out there like that. It’s wrong.”

You flash Rogers a thumbs up and watch as he almost melts into his chair. The look of relief on his face makes your throat constrict. You glance away, giving him what little privacy you can while he processes his sudden change of fortune.

“So what do you need from me to make this happen?” you ask Ana. “I mean, how would you go about finding someone you’ve never met? He could be anywhere.”

Ana clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, a habit she indulges in when she’s mulling over a particularly vexing problem. “Honestly, aside from you, I’ve never tried this on someone who isn’t in my line of sight,” she admits. “You're easy though. I _know_ you.”

She hums to herself and clucks her tongue again. You remain silent, letting her work the issue.

“But in theory, I should be able to project a mental net wide enough to search a large geographical area until I get a bite. Is it safe to assume that he’s probably upset? Um, agitated?"

“I would imagine so, but there are no guarantees for any of this,” you caution. “We’re wading into seriously uncharted water.”

“Well, I can start by sniffing around for any strong thoughts related to HYDRA. If Barnes was sent to kill Captain Rogers, he might be thinking about him, too,” she considers, talking more to herself than you.

“Remind me again how this isn’t exactly what the Professor does?”

“It’s completely different,” she snaps. “He can take control of the waking mind, alter its perception of reality, exert complete control over it, and he can do all of that to dozens of people simultaneously. I can only hitch a ride, one mind at a time. There's no comparison."

“Weird,” you mutter.

“I don’t know how else to explain it. It’d be like you trying to describe to me what it’s like to walk in something else’s skin.”

You snort and run your free hand through your hair. “He’s also likely in terrible shape. There's probably quite a bit of discomfort scrambling his thoughts. Can you use that as a guide?"

“If the pain is strong enough to overwhelm most other thoughts, then yes. It shouldn’t be too hard. But I hate using that as a waypoint,” she replies. “I end up feeling too much. It’s awful.”

“Well don’t do that then.”

“But… but maybe if the pain is related to that arm somehow? I mean, that’s got to be a pretty specific sensation. Not many people strolling around with a banged up metal arm. I don’t know. I’ll see what I can do. The more search terms I have, the better our chances.”

You finally drag your eyes back to Rogers. He’s sitting up straight again, and some of the worry lines that had branched out around the corners of his eyes and mouth are starting to fade.

“Ana is going to try to look for Barnes using… I guess you could call them psychic red flags; things that would almost be unique to Barnes. His feelings about HYDRA, you, even pain specific to his bionic arm. Anything else you can add will help,” you tell him.

“He might be thinking in Russian,” Steve adds, voice quiet. “And if he’s remembering more, maybe about Brooklyn, or his Ma, his sisters. The 107th. The Howling Commandos. I—I don’t know what else.”

“Okay, that’s good, Steve. Thank you.” You angle the receiver of your phone back towards your mouth and parrot back all of the new search terms to Ana.

“One more thing,” Steve says once you’ve finished. “Before I fell into the river, before he fished me out and vanished, I said… _‘I’m with you until the end of the line.’_ His face, it sort of changed, just a little, just for a second, but maybe that’s what finally got through.” He looks down and runs his hands over the back of his head a few times, puffing out air. “It’s stupid, I know—"

“It’s not stupid,” you tell him. “Not even a little.” You relay the last bit of information to Ana and wait for her to digest everything.

“When she gets started,” Steve says, “Try Brooklyn first. It’s the place he knows best. We’ve looked everywhere we could think of, including there, but never found anything. Natasha located a dozen HYDRA safe houses stateside and abroad, but there was no sign of him. She’s called in every favor in her bank and threatened practically everyone she knows and we've still got nothing. Wilson and I have combed the entire East coast and we’d started working into the Midwest when Fury called me and suggested I speak with you.”

“If you already looked there—"

“We already looked everywhere,” he says. “Stark even has JARVIS searching for anything that might link back to Bucky. If he’s spending money, he’s using cash. If he’s renting hotel rooms or cars, he’s using aliases that Stark’s algorithms aren’t picking up. He’s a ghost.”

“They trained him to do this, Steve. To disappear until a handler showed up at a designated time and place and returned him to… to _wherever_ , and had him put back in cold storage,” you reply.

Rogers looks hurt, and knowing that he’d probably drawn the same conclusions a long time ago doesn’t make you feel like any less of an asshole for saying it out loud.

You duck your head a bit and wet your lips. “We’ll start with Brooklyn.”

  

* * *

 

"I can't believe I'm letting her do this," you mutter.

"Thank you," Rogers says, and you can tell he means it, _really_ means it.

It’s been hours since Ana started and you’ve consumed enough espresso to drop a horse. Rogers politely ordered a cup of decaf coffee, but hasn’t so much as touched the mug since the waitress dropped it off (flustered and tripping over her own tongue, the poor lamb).

“This is much more difficult than I thought it would be,” Ana murmurs. You’ve put her on speaker so that Rogers can hear what she’s up to, not that she’s been talking an awful lot. “I’ve scanned Brooklyn like, a dozen times,” she huffs. “I’m just not, _ugh_. I don’t think I’m strong enough to do this.”

“It’s… It’s okay. You tried,” Steve offers, crestfallen. Thankfully, Ana can’t see him, because she’d probably burst into tears if she could.

“Maybe he’s not in Brooklyn,” you prod. “Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place after all.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice watery. “I’m so, so sorry. I can try again, I can keep trying.”

“We will discuss that when I get home,” you tell her, turning off the speakerphone option and bringing the phone back up to your ear. “You did your best.”

“But it wasn’t enough. We didn’t find him.”

“Not every mission is a success,” you tell her. "A hard but valuable lesson to learn."

“But—"

“No buts. I’m not saying we can’t try again, but that’s enough for today. You’ve been at it for hours.”

“Okay,” she exhales into the phone. “Fine. I’ll… I’ll go see what everyone is up to. Adam’s been bugging me about our chess game for a week.”

“Good. Go murder his queen or whatever it is that you do. With that. With chess.”

“Tell Captain Rogers that I’m really sorry, and that I won’t stop looking until we find him,” she finishes before saying goodbye and disconnecting.

“She sounds like a good kid,” Rogers observes, finally taking a pull from his lukewarm decaf.

“Well that’s how they get you,” you chuckle. “All big eyes and halos. Then they become teenagers and everything becomes a bloody _struggle_ practically overnight. I suppose she’s better than most, though.”

“High praise,” he returns with a tight smile that is all kinds of forced.

“As long as you keep looking, I’m sure you’ll find him eventually, Steve.”

He nods, never lifting his eyes to yours, and the motion slowly turns into a shake of his head. “When we first set out, me and Wilson, I thought the same thing. I was so sure that the next truck stop or filthy motel would yield results. That he was just around the next corner, down the next block. But he doesn’t want to be found. Maybe I should respect that and back off.”

You blink at him, feeling something akin to anger crawling up from your gut. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard you say all afternoon. If half of what’s in that file is true, you can’t trust any decision Barnes makes because he’s not capable of making them.”

You take a deep breath, reigning in your irritation. “You two were like brothers, right?”

“We _were_ brothers. Still are, as far as I'm concerned.”

“Well, if—Heaven forbid—something happened to Ana and someone took her away from me, hurt her the way they hurt Barnes, and left her broken and lost, tossed out like yesterday's rubbish... If someone did that? Captain, there is no force on this earth that would keep me from finding her,” you tell him, eyes narrowed to slits, their color flashing as you let your own leash slip. “ _Vengeance_ isn't even the right word. It's inadequate. Flimsy. I would lay waste to  _armies_  if that's what it took to balance the scales.”

“But—"

Your cellphone rings, interrupting whatever Rogers had been about to say. The caller ID shows Ana's picture on the screen.

“Hello?” you answer, curious as to why she would be calling back so soon after—

“I found him!” she gushes. “I found him! I did it!” '

 _“What?_ You were supposed to go do chess with your friend,” you remind her.

“ _Do chess?_   Who says that? Anyway, I went and asked Ms. Munroe if I could hang out in the greenhouse, it’s so quiet there, y’know? And so she said _of course_ and I found a good spot to just sit and think and concentrate, _and I found him!”_

You choke back the urge to reprimand her for being disobedient and deceptive (“Blah blah, my friend Adam, blah blah, our nerdy board game, blah!”), instead making a mental note to bring it up later when you aren't about to join the search for one of America's greatest (lost) heroes.

"Where is he?"

"An abandoned brownstone near the Ninth Street train station, on Fourth Avenue," she supplies, her voice growing stronger. "He _is_ in Brooklyn."

 

* * *

 

You bring up the iMaps app on your phone and drop a pin on the subway station. Steve is busy settling the tab, insisting that he pay. You’d protested, but he’d started using his Official Captain America Voice and surrender was, at that point, inevitable.

Ana fills you in on a few more details while you get a better idea of where you’re headed.

“He’s alone, and there was blood. _A lot_ of blood. I couldn’t tell if someone else did it to him, or…” she trails off. “And it’s dark where he is. Maybe a basement, or just a room with no windows. His vision is pretty fuzzy. He's in a lot of pain. Too much, maybe. He wants a way out.”

"Does it feel like a trap to you?” you ask, well aware that she doesn’t have the field experience to tell when something _is_ a trap, but hell, you might as well make this a learning experience.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean does it feel like someone is setting this up? Conveniently leaving Barnes where Steve would eventually look again, apparently incapacitated and alone.”

“So you’re saying it feels like a trap to you?"

“I’m merely noting the possibility,” you tell her. “A trap is only a trap if you don't know that it's there. If you anticipate the snare, you can work your way around it. Or break it. Or turn it to your advantage.”

“I don’t think it’s a trap,” she states with an air of confidence you wish you felt. “There are no ripples, no echoes, of anyone else around him. He’s been alone for a long time. Maybe since the Triskelion.”

“Is he worked up?”

“No, he's exhausted. And sad. He was awake when I found him, but then he blacked out. I felt a spike of fear right before that, like he knew that whatever he was going to see when he closed his eyes was..." she pauses, sighing heavily into the phone. "God, it's bad, whatever it is."

“You didn’t look, did you?”

“No!” she exclaims, then more softly: “No. That's considered rude among psychics; peeking without an invitation. What I did so far is okay considering it's sort of an emergency. Besides, I don't think I want to see what he's seeing right now. He's  _Bucky Barnes_ and it terrified him, whatever it was."

“Good girl,” you tell her. “That was a smart call. I want you to back off if you’re still keeping tabs on him. Rogers and I will go to the location you indicated and investigate further.”

“You’ll call me back if you find him though, right?” she asks, and you can almost see her biting her lip with worry.

“Of course. Not right away, though. We’ll be a touch busy for a while.”

“You brought your kit?”

“Just the one that goes where the bike does. I wasn’t anticipating a medical emergency. I’ll do what I can on the ground and we’ll work up a plan of action once I have a better idea of where we stand,” you tell her, scrubbing a hand across your eyes. If this rescue operation lasts longer than the weekend, you’ll have to call Summers and explain what you’ve gotten yourself into, and why, and then beg a few days off from your duties at the school.

The conversation will not be a pleasant one.

“We have a safehouse not too far from where Bucky is,” Steve starts, re-inserting himself into the conversation. “It’s in Forest Hills. 10824 68th Avenue. You know how to get around Queens?”

You smirk and roll your eyes. “I’ve been in the neighborhood a few times,” you tell him, refusing to elaborate further. Let Rogers do his own recon on the resident web-slinger on that side of town.

“I’ll talk to you later, Ana. Keep the phone nearby.”

“Right,” she says. “Good luck.”

You disconnect and shove the phone back into your jeans.

"You’re going to have to be satisfied with providing back-up on this one, Rogers,” you tell him, pulling your jacket on. “If he’s as unstable as I suspect, seeing you could trigger a complete mental collapse, or it could send him into a psychotic rage. Either way, I can’t help him if he’s completely wrecked.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks. You note with a great deal of satisfaction and gratitude that he’s not arguing.

"Did Fury not fill you in on that part of my background?” you ask, dragging a pair of black calfskin gloves over your hands. “I’m a doctor. Mostly.”

“What—? That doesn’t… How can someone be _mostly_  a doctor? _”_

“I postponed my residency to teach at Xavier’s. Ana was starting to act out and get into trouble. The school is my _alma mater_ , and the Professor offered me a teaching position while I get her straightened out, so I took it,” you explain, turning from the table and motioning for Rogers to follow. "Anyway, my plan for your friend is to make contact, evaluate his medical condition, then his mental state—not my forte, just to warn you—and only when I’m absolutely sure he’s not going to freak the hell out, you will join us and together, we’ll get him out of whatever hole he’s crawled into. We move him to your safehouse in Queens, and then I get to work cleaning up and setting right what I can,” you tell him over your shoulder. “Once he’s stable, you’re going to have to make arrangements that are both more secure and far more specialized.”

“Maybe...” Steve says, easily matching you stride for stride, “Maybe he’ll be okay once we get him cleaned up and safe. Maybe he won’t need to be—"

“He will, and that’s something you’re going to have to come to terms with. If he isn’t deeply, seriously affected by what’s been done to him, then you should be very worried.”

He shoves his hands in the pocket at the front of his hoodie and nods. “You’re right.”

“This thing that we’re about to do, that _you’re_ about to do? It’s probably going to be one of the hardest things you've ever done, if for no other reason than because you care so much about the outcome.”

“You’re not a particularly positive person, are you?” he asks, and though he tries to keep his tone light, you can tell he finds it a little off-putting.

“I consider myself a realist,” you retort. “Prepare for the worst, hope for the best.”

A few blocks later, you spot your 1199 Superleggera perched on the curb like an imposing bird-of-prey; all sharp angles and glossy black carbon fiber. You retrieve your helmet from the doorman of the nearest building (you’d paid him fifty bucks to keep an eye on the bike) and pop it on. Slinging one leg over the seat, you reach forward and turn the engine over, pleased at the efficient, musical hum of the machinery.

"How am I supposed to keep up with you on _that?"_ Rogers asks, gesturing to the Ducati superbike.

You shrug, "Run really fast?"

"Cute. I guess I’ll meet you in Brooklyn.”

“I’m not going to wait for you. If he’s as bad as Ana indicated, we really have no time to waste,” you tell him. Before he can protest, you pull away from the curb and slice into traffic, cutting between cars, trucks, and beat up cabs like a hot knife through butter.

 

* * *

 

You know the city fairly well, enough to navigate several side streets and narrow alleys to avoid the worst of the traffic. You crisscross W. 44th, 5th Avenue, and East 14th, Broadway, Canal, and then zip across the Manhattan Bridge. You circumvent Flatbush Avenue with side streets to save time, and then cross over to 4th Avenue.

Twenty minutes after leaving Midtown, you're slowly rolling through a neighborhood of modest brownstones and mom-and-pop shops that the yuppies haven’t squeezed out yet. A young man sporting _payot_ and the traditional, conservative clothing favored by Hasidic Jews glances up from his cellphone to look at you, then the bike, and then back at you as you come to a stop in front of what might be a coffee shop or a liquor store. The signage is confusing.

You make eye contact and he bobs his head.

“Are you lost?” he asks.

“No. Do I stick out that much?”

“It’s the pants,” he says with a shy smile. “Most of the women in the neighborhood…” he gestures to his own clothing. “You know.”

You nod, and pull your helmet off, balancing it on the seat of the bike.

“Their coffee is pretty terrible,” he warns, pointing at the shop. “There’s a better place around the corner.”

“Thanks.” You pop open a hidden (and definitely custom) compartment on the side of the bike, tugging out a nondescript black bag that can easily pass as a very utilitarian purse but actually contains vital medical equipment and supplies. You wave to the young man as you walk towards the subway station, eyes flicking to the signs that announce service to the elevated IND Culver Line and the underground BMT Fourth Avenue Line; F, G, R, D, and N trains. Well, at least you know you’re in the general area where Ana had found Barnes.

Most of the nearby houses seem occupied; they’re not flashy and it looks like most haven’t been altered substantially since the 1970s, but they’re clean and tidy. The rubbish bins are all numbered and tucked away from the sidewalk. These aren’t rich people, but they clearly take pride in their neighborhood.

Barnes can’t be in any of these houses for all the obvious reasons. You’ll have to find one that’s abandoned.

You look back in the direction you’d seen the young man and catch sight of him turning into the small front yard of a nearby house.

“Hey!” you call, waving one hand over your head as you jog over.

He looks up again from his phone and gives a slow, hesitant wave back. 

“Sorry, I don’t mean to put you on the spot,” you tell him. “I’m supposed to be meeting a real estate agent to check out one of the abandoned houses in the neighborhood.”

“Not many of those,” he says, reaching up with one hand to scratch his forehead. “The synagogue usually buys them up and renovates them for new families immigrating to the States. Usually from Russia. That’s how my folks got this one.” He motions to the duplex behind him.

“Shoot,” you say, placing your hands on your hips. “I wrote the address down on a notepad but I was halfway into the city before I realized I left it at home. Memory of a goldfish,” you laugh, bopping yourself on your forehead. The lie is pathetic, but the kid seems earnest and naive enough to buy it at face value. “I guess I should just call her and ask for the address again.”

“Reception can be pretty spotty. People say it’s because of the subway line. Interference or something,” he holds up his phone. “I’ve barely got a bar. Are you sure the house is in this neighborhood?”

“Positive.”

“Well… The only one I can think of is about two blocks down, but it’s a real dump. I don’t think it even has a door, just a big piece of plywood slapped on by the city to keep the bums out. You thinking about moving in or just flipping it for resale or rental? ‘Cause I gotta be honest, and please don’t be offended, but you’re a _shiksa._  Not sure anyone would buy or rent from you, even if you did a really good job fixing the place up.”

“Duly noted,” you tell him with a smile. Little enclaves like this tend to hold on to whatever traditions and cultural mores the original residents managed to drag along with them from the old country. Not that any of that actually matters to you at the moment. "It's okay."

“It’s not. It's stupid and backward,” he counters, cheeks flushing. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, really. I’ll go find that house and keep trying my realtor. Thanks for your help.”

He nods and heads up onto the front porch of the duplex, where a stern-faced woman in a long gray dress waits in one of the doorways. You hope you haven’t gotten him into trouble.

You force yourself to walk at a casual pace, punching the screen of your cellphone with one outstretched finger as if it’s refusing to do as you want. Finally, a few blocks down you find the house the young man had described.

There's a long piece of plywood where a door belongs, and it's clearly been pried loose at the bottom. It would be difficult for someone Barnes' size to squeeze through, but not impossible. Even from the outside, the place is clearly a tear-down. A faded piece of paper with the city seal stamped at the top is posted to the board. It reads:

CONDEMNED BY ORDER OF THE NEW YORK CITY HOUSING AUTHORITY.

TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW.

"Oh, perfect,” you mutter, glancing around to see if anyone is watching. The streets seem empty, though little communities like this tend to have a surplus of nosy old ladies with nothing better to do than keep watch at their windows and note every minor disturbance with alarming accuracy. The longer you hesitate, however, the more likely someone will notice, along with the inescapable fact that Barnes is likely getting worse as the day wears on. If he’s not in this house, he’s in one nearby, so you’ll search them all should that be required. You’re committed to this now.

Briefly, you wonder where the hell Rogers is and what’s taking him so long. No time to wait, though.

“Once more into the breach," you whisper, pulling the flimsy wooden barrier back and slipping into the darkness beyond.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

 

The house is oppressively dark, with only a few slivers of pale yellow light filtering through the cracks between the boards nailed over the spaces where windows used to be.  You wrinkle your nose at the smell of rot, mold, and the sharp sting of ammonia.

Within seconds, your eyes have adjusted, growing _tapetum lucidum_  in each and reflecting what scant light makes it through the boards back into your retinas.  The foyer brightens quickly, and you begin to slowly pick your way through the detritus of the ruined home.

As you press forward into the next room, you feel an itch start at the base of each ear, traveling up and into the canals.  Their external shape changes; your auricular muscles strengthening to allow more delicate, deliberate movement, and the length and profile of the shell adjusting to catch more sound.

As strong as the earlier noted odors are, your nose begins to shift its structure. Your olfactory has picked up on something in the air that deserves more attention and you’re adapting to satisfy your brain’s need for additional information. You inhale deeply and feel your stomach roil at the distinct smell of fresh vomit and blood. The heavy copper tang works its way into your throat and makes your eyes water.

Glass and debris crunch under your feet, unavoidable in the growing mess of the brownstone as you approach the end of the first room, which you can only assume was once a front parlor. You can't help but feel a pang of sadness at the ruin of what was once someone's home. The old-fashioned wallpaper has almost come completely free of the walls and black mold is swiftly colonizing the room, swallowing it up in toxic spores that only complete demolition will remedy.

Every muscle in your body suddenly tenses and your ears snap forward, straining hard. You pick up the sound of something shifting in the room beyond, a subtle adjustment of weight that causes the ruined hardwood to creak in protest.

You peer around the entryway, and there he is.

Curled around himself in the fetal position with his back to the doorway, the Winter Soldier lies huddled in a corner, surrounded by crates of Nikolai vodka along with empty bottles of the same. A wide spray of crimson blood fans out from his left shoulder, indicative of an arterial bleed. The wound is still slowly pumping blood onto the slick floor, and judging by the amount soaking into the floorboards, he doesn’t have much left to lose.

 _That’s probably the Axillary_ , you note. _I can clamp it without endangering whatever is left of his shoulder and arm. Good._  Abandoning caution, you rush forward to crouch on the floor, rotating him gently onto his back and bringing his head forward.

"Sergeant? James? Can you hear me?"

No response. You drop your medical kit onto the ground, grimacing at the wet sound it makes upon contact with the gore still spreading out around you.  You rip out a small penlight and pry Barnes’ eyelids up, only to find his eyes completely rolled back into his head. 

“Dammit,” you seethe, pressing three fingers against his carotid, barely able to detect a pulse, and what you do find is thready and weak. The wound is horrific, and the jagged edges indicate a serrated weapon of some kind. You quickly glance around and spot the (holy shit, _huge)_ knife tossed halfway across the room. There is no sign of a struggle and no evidence that anyone else has been in the room with him.

“Christ, you did this to yourself, didn’t you?” You draw in a shaky breath and dig around in your kit again, first snapping on a pair of latex gloves and then pulling loose a long rubber tube.  You get the tourniquet around the shoulder joint and pull it tight before knotting it, trying to cut off the flow of blood from the damaged artery.  You hold the penlight between your teeth, cursing yourself for not adding a headlamp to the kit.

You double check that he’s still breathing (shallow, gasping, completely uneven), and then retrieve your suturing set.  You flush everything with a generous amount of saline, and then apply surgical clamps above and below the artery, noting that you’ll have to ligate the vessel, sewing up the ends to close it completely.  Another steadying breath and you get your suture prepared, and start to tie a series of tiny loops, starting from the top and working your way around. Ideally, you’d be able to apply an interposition graft as well, but the ligation will have to do. You tie off the surgical thread, and slowly release the clamps, watching for any signs of a leak.

Observing none, you toss the used needle and its bloodied driver to the side and prepare a clean set, then begin knitting the worst of the sub-dermal muscle damage ( _pectoralis major;_ that one’s gonna smart) back to something approaching normal.  Once everything looks less shredded, you again start a new line of stitches, this time closing the torn skin. He’ll have quite a scar if he survives.  Carefully, you loosen the tourniquet, though you don’t disengage it entirely.

The end result is ugly as hell, and had you done this in a proper hospital, you’d probably lose your medical license in the resulting lawsuit.  A procedure like this really needs to be handled by an experienced vascular surgeon (which you are not) with a team of nurses, and at least one anesthesiologist, in a sterile, controlled operating room.  What should have taken hours if done properly has barely clocked in at forty minutes.  You’ve done a slightly better job than a field medic in the middle of a firefight.

 _Still better than nothing_ , you remind yourself.  _Still better than bleeding out._

Barnes’ skin is ashy, a sickly cadaver-grey caused by the lack of blood he has left to circulate through his body.  Hands shaking, you press your fingers against his throat again, hoping.

The rhythm is slight and delicate, but there. You tell yourself that it's stronger than before.  You lean forward and lower your ear to his chest, first checking his heart (about as weak as you’d expected, but steady), then follow the long line of his sternum to watch for the rise and fall of his lungs drawing breath.  You can hear the air rasping inside, and are relieved as each inhale-exhale goes a bit deeper, a bit fuller than the last.

You know that the serum (however watered-down it may have been compared to Erskine’s formula), has likely done more to save Barnes’ life than your sloppy attempt at triage. Had he not been enhanced, he would have died long before you’d reached him.  The timing of everything, from Ana’s discovery of his location to your arrival on scene, is damned uncanny.

“You’re one lucky bastard, you know that?”

You reach up to wipe the accumulated blood and sweat from his brow and he flinches, as if your touch burns.  His head rolls to the side and he starts to shift against the floor.  Without warning, his good arm snaps up against the sutures tracking across his left shoulder. He claws at them.

“What?! No, stop!” you cry, grabbing the offending hand and trying to pry it away. “Barnes, stop!”

His back arches from the floor, eyelids fluttering to reveal only the whites. He’s gasping like a landed fish, throat working as if he wants to scream.

_Shit! Shit shit shit!_

You could really use Steve's help holding his friend down right now. You might shift into something stronger, but you’ll lose the dexterity needed to control him without doing damage.  You allow your muscles to compensate as much as possible without falling into a complete shift, leaning back to apply leverage to Barnes’ offending arm.

“Please!” you beg him, digging your heels into the floor. “ _Please!_ ”

He wrests his arm free, fingers digging into the newly closed wound, raking fresh gouges in his own flesh. 

He’s trying to tear the bionic arm off.

You rip your cellphone from your pocket and frantically stab at the screen until you manage to select Ana’s number from your recent calls list. She picks up before it can finish ringing.

“Did you find—"

“Ana, _Ana_ , listen,” you practically shout into the phone. “Can you get me inside his head?”

_“What?!”_

“I need to get inside, I can’t let you go in there yourself, but he’s—goddammit, stop, Barnes!—he’s lost or hallucinating, I don’t know, but he’s going to kill himself if I don’t get control of this situation,” you pant, keeping the phone pinned to your ear with a hunched shoulder, using both hands to pry his own from the bloody tracks he’s digging into his skin.

“Can’t you, like, sedate him or something?” she asks, a desperate edge of fear to her words.

“He’s not stable, I’ll kill him if I slow his heart down any more. Get me _inside!”_

"I don’t even know if I can, and if I do, I’m not sure how to get you back. It’s… It’s not like going out for a sodding stroll!" she shouts, and the worry in her voice, the fear, makes you hesitate for the briefest moment.  Barnes manages a hoarse scream and thrashes against you, and you know he's dying, still trapped in his nightmares.

“You’ll figure it out. I trust you. Do it!” you order. 

"I don't want to lose you," she stammers and you’re preparing another argument when you suddenly feel her inside your head, nudging gently, trying to convince your subconscious mind to let go, to be moved, and your body reacts as if she's trying to kill you (which she is, technically).  It takes more willpower than you thought you possessed to resist the urge to violently shove her back out.

"Don't be gentle about it, Ana! Push!"

And she does. She forces you out of your own body, and the severing of the connection between self and sinew is more than painful; it ratchets down your spine like fire.  You feel the loss so keenly you begin to consider oblivion preferable to another minute in such a state of  _not_ _being._ But Ana's there, though you can't see her or feel her in the traditional sense, guiding you to the soldier shaking violently in the dark room, attacking himself even as he remains unconscious. You notice your own body slumped over, your clothes soaking up the blood on the floor.  Another hard shove from Ana, and suddenly you're standing alone in an empty void. You can feel your legs, feel them rooted to the ground, as real and tangible as they ever were.

But this isn't real, you remind yourself.  Ana’s touch is completely absent in this place and you wonder if perhaps you have gone and died.  Well, you  _were_ warned.

Squinting, you make out the faint shape of a body not far from where you're standing.  You run towards the outline of what you hope is Barnes, the darkness twisting around your legs like smoke.  You’re not entirely sure that you’re moving; there’s no passing scenery or visible ground to judge by, but the distant figure slowly grows larger as you draw near. 

Finally, you’re close enough to touch him.  You kneel and prop up the shivering, shaking form into a sitting position, wrapping an arm around his back to keep him from collapsing.

His head turns and pale blue eyes meet yours. "You're not real," he rasps, then closes his eyes again. "Go away."

His face is gaunt; the bones beneath the skin shifting with each breath.  The circles under his eyes look more like bruises and his hair lies lank and filthy across his forehead.

"I am real," you counter. “More real than anything else in this place, other than you.” You brush as much hair out of his eyes as possible, adjusting your position so you have a better grip on him.  Despite looking like little more than a skeleton, he’s remarkably heavy.

“No, you’re not. None of you are real,” he protests. "I killed the others. They showed me and I—" He falls silent, eyes glazing over.

“Please, Barnes, you need to listen to me.  I’m a friend of Steve’s—"

He reacts faster than you’re prepared for, jerking away from you and falling over. He crawls away, looking back with utter panic in his eyes. "No!” he shouts, “Steve’s not—no! I didn’t. I didn’t kill  _him_. You’re lying. You’re all lying, I would never—"

“Steve is fine. He’s alive and he’s _fine_ , Barnes. He’s been looking for you for months,” you assure him, holding your hands up to show him that you’re not trying to hurt him. “I know you didn’t kill him.”

“GO AWAY!” he screams, and there are tears now, tracking down the too-deep hollows of his cheeks. He gasps and rolls over, resting his head against the not-floor. “I stayed away. I stayed away from him so I wouldn’t—so they couldn’t make me—"

“Okay, I understand,” you tell him, keeping your voice quiet and even. “You did the right thing. But you’re very sick and Steve is worried. We have to find a way out of this place so we can make you better again.”

“Don’t make me go away,” he begs, looking up at you with a mixed expression of terror and rage. “I’ll be good, I promise. Just don’t make me hurt Steve, _and don’t make me go away_. Please…”

Your heart breaks and you feel tears pricking at your own eyes. “Bucky, I’m not going to hurt you,” you promise. “I would never—Please, I need you to listen to me. I’m here to help. I don’t work with HYDRA, or S.H.I.E.L.D. I don’t want to send you away or give you a mission.  I’m trying to get you out, to get you home.”

He breathes heavily, eyes squeezed shut, and shakes his head. “Can’t go home,” he says. “You’re lying, they always lie. Right through their goddamn teeth.”

You scoot towards him, slowly, with your hands still up and palms facing forward. “I know.  They hurt you and used you and then left you to die in this pit,” you tell him.

“No, no, they don’t know I’m here. They tried to follow, but I—"

“Okay, good. You got away, you beat them, Barnes.  Steve won't let anyone take you again. You know that.”

“I have to stay away,” he gasps. “I see him and everything goes _red_ and it hurts in here,” he presses a bloody finger to his temple. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m not leaving this place without you,” you tell him. “Not when I’ve come this far.”

"I'm not who Steve thinks I am. That guy is _dead_ , why can’t you understand? I can't be—"

"You are him, and some part of you knows it,” you scold, closing the remaining distance between you.  Carefully, you lift his head from the ground. He sighs, turning his face into the crook of your arm and relaxing the tight line of his body.

“Good,” you tell him, pulling your fingers through his hair in what you hope is a comforting gesture.  There are tangles, but you work them free without pulling against his scalp. He hunches in towards you, his metal arm curling around your waist as he grasps at you like a man drowning.

“You’re the worst one yet,” he cries into your lap, his voice muffled. “You’re nice, and warm, and—" Those metal fingers release their grip on your hip and slide up your arm, slipping beneath your own at the crown of his skull. “And then you’ll stop, and the pain will come.”

“Barnes, relax.  We have someone on the outside trying to work up an exit strategy. She’ll find a way to get us out. Until then, you need to—"

He laughs; a brittle, harsh sound that reminds you of dead leaves being dragged across rough pavement by the wind. “You really are the worst one. I hate the cold. Hate it. But you know that, and you know I won’t fight you.”  He looks up at you, brow creased, “But if you could knock me out before the ice this time, that’d be appreciated. Hit me over the head, suck all the oxygen out of the room, I don’t care. Just don’t do it while I’m awake. I've been good, haven't I? You can do that much for me.”

“Dammit, Barnes…”

Suddenly, he stiffens and starts to scramble backward, throwing you off balance so that you topple over. "No! No,  _please_ , no more!  _Please!"_

The darkness around you contracts and then rapidly expands, boiling out like liquid nitrogen as the nightmare changes. Blank walls shimmer into existence, and Barnes is no longer on the floor, but hanging like a ragdoll from the newly-formed ceiling, arms strung above him with a set of heavy chains. The very tips of his toes just barely touch the ground, unable to gain adequate purchase.  The weight of his own body strains the ligaments in his good arm as he sways, his balance impossible to maintain.

As he turns in the air, you can see the flayed skin of his back. Some of the wounds penetrate all the dermal layers, exposing fat and tissue, bright red slashes of muscle, and _holy shit_ , there are places where the flesh has been stripped the bone.

You lose it, vomiting up the not-contents of your not-stomach, violently retching despite years spent studying medical diagrams and performing dissections on donated corpses.  This is no dead man, no drawing in a textbook. 

You hear him whispering, still conscious somehow. "Please, no more. Please. I'll do what you want."

“Oh Christ, Barnes, this isn’t me, I’m not—"

An invisible force strikes out at him and he swings wildly on the chains, back arching and a scream torn from his throat that is so raw, you almost feel the lash yourself.  He curls up on himself, finding the strength to drag his knees up to his chest before finally going slack with exhaustion.

“Stop!”  You shout at nothing, at no one. You try to remember what Ana has told you about the astral plane, about the impression of one will upon another, about metaphysical selves and the formless anarchy of the dream world. Nothing here is real.  This isn’t actually happening.  Barnes isn’t being flayed alive, there is no silent torturer snapping his lash with all his strength, there are no chains.

Barnes is struck again and again, each time his cries diminish, throat ragged and torn.  You wonder how long it will be until he passes out and then remember, with a stab of horror, that he’ll be able to withstand a lot more damage because of the serum.

 _Christ_.

“Barnes,” you call out. “You can stop this. This isn’t real, nothing in this place is real!” You dash forward and grab him around legs, hefting with all your strength to take some of the weight off his arms, to stop his swinging. “C’mon, this is your head, I can’t—" You look up, scowling at the chains. The lash comes again and it licks across your right arm, stripping the skin and leaving a bloody welt in its wake. “Barnes!” you plead, pulling tighter against his knees. “Please try!”

You look up again and his eyes are locked with yours, surprise written clearly on his face. “You’re real?” he asks, and before the whip can touch him again, the chain shatters—no, _explodes_ —into dust.

Barnes drops to the ground and rolls with you. Once you get yourself reoriented, you scramble to him, lifting his head up again and shifting him onto his side, keeping his savaged back from touching the ground.

"Please," he whispers, staring up at nothing. “Please, just let me die. Just kill me."

"I can't do that," you reply, wiping the grit and grime from his cheeks. "You're still needed. You have to come back with me."

He closes his eyes and turns his head away from you. “There isn’t—I can’t. This is all that there is,” he says, his voice so quiet you have to strain to hear him.

"Please, Sergeant.  _Bucky_. You need to fight."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, but whatever he says next is lost as you feel yourself ripped backward, the entire not-place evaporating, replaced with the rapidly solidifying shape of the Brooklyn brownstone.  You feel Ana’s desperation as she attempts to cram you back inside your body, clearly working by instinct. It’s a kind of pain there aren’t words for. Once again, you find yourself having to ignore the growing desire to let go completely and float away from the agony.

Then, in an instant, you're back, kneeling on the filthy wood floor.

Blue eyes are staring into yours.

"You're really here," he exhales.

You’re only able to groan in response, shifting up onto your knees.  You feel like you’ve had your brain rewired, like you’re still settling back into your own limbs and organs and nerve endings.  Everything is too bright and too loud and too itchy.

You catch your breath and then drag yourself closer to Barnes. He's shaking and wild-eyed, glance flicking from the corners of the room, to the doorway, back to you. He's seems to be clinging to reality by a fractional margin, and you’re worried that he’ll slip back into a waking nightmare at any moment.

"We need to get you out of here, Sergeant. Somewhere safe, and warm, and not about to fall down around our heads,” you tell him, gently removing a cockroach that had settled on the toe of your boot. The little beasts are disease vectors, but having walked in the skins of hundreds of non-humans, you can no longer bring yourself to squash them simply for being what they are.

“My arm,” he says, ignoring your previous statement and fixating on the track of sutures crisscrossing his shoulder. “Who—? _You?”_

“Sorry, a proper doctor could have done much better, but I’m all you’ve got. I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger of bleeding out, but I really need better equipment to make sure that you can heal the rest on your own.”

He gingerly touches the stitches with his good hand. “Why?” he asks. “You’re not from maintenance."

“You’re confused again,” you sigh. “I’m not with HYDRA. You’re not with HYDRA anymore either, for that matter. You’re free, Barnes.”

He blinks, examining the information. “You’re with Steve,” he exhales, eyebrows lifting as the information slides into place. “He’s… he’s here?”

"Of course I am," a solemn voice calls from the hallway.

"And where have you been?” you accuse, head snapping around to stare at Rogers. He has the decency to look sheepish.

“Flatbush, mostly. I got here twenty minutes ago,” he admits. “But every time I tried to reach you, uh, _someone_ stopped me.”

“Ana.”

“I can only assume. There was all that blood and you both looked like you were dead and I was… I was frantic,” he admits. “I think she was afraid I’d do more harm than good.”

You grope around until you find your cellphone where you'd dropped it earlier.  You call her back and though she picks up quickly, she stays quiet on the other end.

“Shadow?” you ask, using the pet name so she knows you aren’t angry.

“…Yeah?”

“I’m okay. We got Barnes back, and you are downright amazing. Is there a reason you stopped Rogers from helping?”

“Well,” she starts, clearly exhausted, “If he moved you, it would have made it harder to put you back. I told you I wasn’t sure if I could do this. I didn’t know if that would mess it up.  When I practice with the Professor and Dr. Grey, they sit very still for me and we're all in the same room.”

You slump forward, rubbing the back of your head with your free hand. “That makes sense,” you tell her.  “You made a call to err on the side of caution, and in this particular case, I think you were right to do so. Good job.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I’m really tired, though. And hungry. Is that how you feel after you shift a lot?”

“Wrung out and ravenous,” you confirm. “Go raid the kitchen and then get some rest. You earned it.”

“Sounds good.  When he’s better, tell Barnes I said hello,” she mumbles rather sleepily. “And that HYDRA are a bunch of _assholes_.”

“Language,” you chuckle before she hangs up.

You look back over your shoulder at the two men. Neither has moved since you made the call to Ana.  Steve’s got his arms crossed firmly across his chest, staring a hole in the floor.  Barnes has his head tucked against his knees.

After several long, uncomfortable moments, Steve swallows audibly, breaking the uneasy silence.  He looks up, clears his throat, and says, "Heya, Buck."

The response comes so quick, so completely without hesitation, that it catches you all off-guard.

"Heya, pal.”


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 "Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

 

“I really hate to put the kibosh on this painfully overdue reunion, but we ought to get Barnes to that safehouse, Steve. I think his sutures will hold, but this is hardly the environment a person should convalesce in.”

"Right,” Rogers says, shaking his head and breaking the spell woven by Barnes’ greeting. 

“I’m not sure how long I can hold on,” Barnes mutters. “Being lucid, I mean.  It comes and goes.”  He wrinkles his brow like his own words have left him confused.

“I suppose the vodka doesn’t help,” you observe, toeing one of the many empty bottles scattered around the room.  You stop to pick up your medical kit, zipping it closed before slinging the strap around your shoulder.

“Actually, the vodka is the only thing keeping me from putting a gun in my mouth,” he snaps.

Steve flinches and takes a step back. “Buck…”

“I didn’t get the same dose as you, Rogers,” he continues. “Whatever they shot me full of in that prison doesn’t work quite as well as your version.  It takes a lot, but I can get drunk if I really try.”

“Your metabolism may be enhanced, but your liver and kidneys can only flush your system so fast,” you reprimand. “That said, I’ll gladly take failing but salvageable organs over a gunshot wound to your head,” you challenge.

He sneers at you. “Look lady, you don’t know shit about me, and neither does _he_ ,” he says, jerking his head towards Rogers. “I told you before, but you wouldn’t listen. That guy he’s been chasing, James Barnes, he’s dead. I killed him, and he ain’t coming back.”

“Whatever you say, jerk,” Steve counters, before striding forward and pulling the other man up from the floor.  “You gonna walk out or do I have to carry you?”

Barnes tries to shove him off but only sets himself to stumbling into the nearest wall.  He braces himself there for a moment, furious, before relenting. “I can walk, but not on my own,” he says from behind clenched teeth.

You motion for Steve to stay where he is and get your shoulder under Barnes’ good arm, helping him off the wall and back on both feet. 

“You can insult me all you want,” you warn him. “You’re hardly the scariest or meanest person I’ve ever dealt with, so good luck putting me off with all that barking. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

He just snorts and pulls you along with him, leaning on you like he would a crutch.  Slowly but surely, you all shuffle out of the brownstone, Steve trailing behind like a deflated balloon.

\---

“I'll get him into the car, you follow on the bike,” Steve says, walking ahead to wait at the bottom of the stoop, ready to catch either or both of you should anyone lose their balance.

"Can you handle him on your own, if he—?" you ask, hesitating on the last step before the sidewalk.

Barnes tenses and then hangs his head. "Not even on his best day."

You sigh and step down, and once you’ve got Barnes steady, Rogers takes him from you. He half-drags, half-carries his exhausted friend the last few feet to the curb.  You help load the blessedly silent Barnes into Rogers' waiting car; a nondescript grey Buick with Oklahoma tags. You lean in over the open passenger door as Steve gets Barnes’ belt across his chest and buckled.

"What I saw in there," you begin, shaking your head. "I get the impression that was a memory.” He looks away, confirming your suspicion. “I know they’re only words, and if I could do more to—I’m sorry that happened to you, Barnes. Inadequate and flimsy, I know, but it’s all I have to offer. Aside from sloppy sutures and painkillers.”

“Those don’t work on me,” he says with a slight shrug of his shoulders, which causes his entire body to seize up as he inadvertently moves the damaged muscle.  Steve pulls back but doesn’t comment, and both of you allow Barnes to get his breathing under control as the pain subsides.  “I burn through ‘em too quick.”

“They found a combination and quantity that works just fine on Rogers, so I’m fairly certain we can sort something out that’ll be effective,” you assure him. “If HYDRA never did, it’s because they’re animals, not because you’re immune to opioids or alternative pain blockers. We’ll figure it out.”

He looks at you like you’re talking about conjuring up a unicorn, like you’re insane or deeply stupid.

“I mean it, Sergeant. Medicine is science, not sorcery, and you're not nearly as mysterious as you think,” you add, throwing him a lopsided smirk to take any sting out of the remark.  “Try not to kill Rogers en route, okay?”

A shallow nod is all you receive before you shut the door, huffing quietly as a knot of tension that had settled somewhere beneath your breastbone slowly comes undone.

“I’ll meet you over there,” Steve says before walking around the front of the ugly little car and sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Try not to take a sodding hour to get there this time,” you warn, only half-jokingly, before heading back down the street toward the coffee shop you’d left your bike parked in front of.  It seems like a lifetime ago that you’d spoken to the neighborhood kid about real estate and gender roles in immigrant communities.  A quick glance at your watch shows that only a few hours have passed.

The Superleggera remains unmolested precisely where you left it, along with your helmet.  You get yourself sorted quickly, jamming the depleted kit back into the storage compartment before pulling your helmet on. Once the engine is humming, you peel out into the street, heading back toward Steve's car. He's already at the end of the block, idling at the corner, but hits the gas when he catches you in the rearview.

It's not a terribly long ride to Queens, even with evening traffic starting to build up, and Rogers seems to know a few shortcuts.  You still pull ahead of him, your own (bad) driving habits superseding the noted benefits of sticking together.  Cars are so _slow_.

When you reach the safehouse, you can't help but wonder how much the purchase had cost S.H.I.E.L.D. and how they managed to keep it under their ownership once the agency had been broken down to its component parts. Probably something Fury and Romanoff arranged under several false names and phony deed transactions. Bloody s _pies_.

There's no driveway or garage to speak of, so you mount the curb and bring the bike around the side of the house, behind a long, well-maintained hedge. You dismount, stash your helmet, and meet Rogers and Barnes a few minutes later at the front of the house.  Apparently Rogers took your warning about punctuality to heart.

Barnes is starting to resist Rogers' assistance, swearing at him in a mix of Russian and English.  Steve is struggling to keep him moving up the short walkway leading to the front door, clearly distressed as his friend continues to deteriorate.

"Quickly," you hiss at him, propping Barnes up on the other side.  The pair of you manage to get him inside the house without things devolving into an outright brawl. Thankfully, he's still weak and isn’t able to do much except squirm and curse.

"Bucky…" Steve starts, trying to keep the situation under control as Barnes twists against you both. "Buck, come on."

"Kitchen," you direct, pulling them both to the back of the house, where you'd spotted the gleam of stainless steel appliances.

"Shouldn't we get him into a bed?" Steve asks, pulling his head back just in time to avoid an elbow to the face.

"No. Kitchen table will be easier to examine him on, and we'll have a close supply of water and heat," you explain, grunting as Barnes manages to twist your arm the wrong way, snapping your ulna in several places. There's a short burst of intense discomfort before you turn your pain receptors off. A few seconds more, and the damage has been erased; arm good as new.

"I heard that," Steve says, referring to the sound of the bone breaking. "You okay?"

"Perfectly fine," you reply, and cast a sidelong glance at the spitting, swearing, struggling Barnes. "Не сделать это снова," you tell him in Russian. He balks, staring at you, shocked at the unexpected order and the language it was delivered in. "We're trying to help you, remember?" you finish, before finally reaching the kitchen.

"Делай что хочешь," he snarls. "Я не ваша собака больше." 

"He thinks we're HYDRA," you tell Steve. "That we're bringing him in to be wiped."

"Jesus, no! Buck, never. We're not—”

"Who knows how many times he fought them off while they dragged him to one of their secret bunkers or labs to torture all traces of James Barnes out of his head," you snap, disgusted and furious. "Do your people have an estimate on how many of them are still active?"

"Too many," Steve answers. "I'll get him on the table. I don't think there's anything in this house that'll keep him restrained, though."

"Just hold him down for a second," you instruct, pulling your phone out of your jacket once more.

A moment later, and you're back on the line with Ana.

"We've taken him to a safehouse, but he's combative and slipping," you explain. "I need another push to bring him out of it. We can’t have the Winter Soldier rampaging through Queens."

“I’d stop him if—" Steve argues before you cut him off.

“And if he needed to be brought down  _permanently_ , if he threatened the lives of civilians, could you do that, Captain?” you growl.

Steve claps his jaw shut and shakes his head.  “No.”

“Back to Plan A then.”

"You’re sure?" Ana asks, and you can clearly hear the exhaustion in her voice. This is the most she's ever flexed her psychic muscles, but you're proud that she doesn't complain.

“Positive. Do what you can.”

There's no delicacy in her push this time; she's more confident of her abilities, of what to do, and in a fraction of second, you're outside yourself being funneled towards Barnes and then you’re in.

You take a moment to look around, momentarily confused until you finally recognize where you’ve seen a setup like this before.  You’re in a bank vault, of all places. You raise a brow at the walls of safe deposit boxes, the reinforced cage and thick steel door beyond. In the center of the room is a row of computers and their corresponding monitors, bio-metric tracking programs blinking on the screens. And a chair. A very _distinct_ chair, one you recognize from the dossier Steve had given you to read at the cafe.

"Oh no…" you breathe, and then The Winter Soldier appears, seated and half-naked, his metal arm being prodded by a technician holding what looks a lot like a soldering iron. Without warning, the Soldier throws the other man across the room.  Multiple figures manifest themselves in a circle around the chair, each one in head-to-toe tactical gear, and each one with an assault rifle aimed at the Soldier’s head.

He doesn't make another move, seemingly oblivious to the panic he's caused.

A voice buzzes in your ear, and a new form rises up out of the swirling, amorphous dreamscape.  An older man, wearing a sharp suit and too-shiny shoes.

 _Alexander Pierce_.

"Mission report."

Barnes doesn't answer.

"Mission report, now!"

Still no answer.

Pierce stalks forward and backhands the Asset hard across the face.  Slowly, deliberately, the Soldier rights himself, though he looks no more coherent now than before as far as you can tell.

"The man on the bridge," he says quietly. "Who was he?"

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment," Pierce lies.

"I knew him," Barnes continues, more to himself than anyone else.

"Your work has been a gift to Mankind. You helped shape the century."

You see doubt flicker across Barnes' face.

"Society's at a tipping point between order and chaos," Pierce drones on. "Tomorrow morning, we're gonna give it a push. But if you don't do your part, I can't do mine, and HYDRA can't give the world the freedom it deserves."

"But I knew him," the Asset says again, finally lifting his eyes to look at Pierce. Something like a smile twists his mouth before quickly fading away.

"Prep him," Pierce snaps, drawing away. He looks annoyed that his monologue hadn’t inspired more compliance. One of the technicians protests, noting that the Asset has been out of cryo for too long, that he's too unstable. In the most infuriatingly nonchalant tone, Pierce says, "Then wipe him, _and start over_. _"_

The man in the chair looks gut-punched as he's offered a bite guard, and you can see the anger growing in his eyes as he accepts it, can feel the panic as they push him back, as he’s locked in place. He remembers this part of the process and is terrified. His chest heaves as both halves of an evil-looking mask sizzling with arcs of blue electricity slide into position over his head and face. 

He screams.  The smell of burning hair and skin sets you stomach churning.  You let the horror wash over you, allowing a familiar but dangerous wrath to build in response.  You want to hurt the people who did this, who are capable of doing it to another human being. With a start, you realize all the men in the room—except for the one in the chair—are looking at you.

"Who…?" one of them asks, but he chokes on the rest of his question as you snap a hand forward and break his windpipe. 

How this is possible is not important.  Whatever the reason or explanation, you can interact with this memory, and maybe that means you can change it. Gunfire erupts around you, because even though this didn't actually happen, Barnes' brain is filling in the gaps.  The mind's capacity for self-deception is astounding.

With a snarl, you move; kicking, breaking, tearing open and crushing the fragile bodies of your enemies with an almost preternatural economy of movement. You feel triumphant, untouchable as you reach deep into the genetic memory of an untold number of apex predators, perfect killing machines, until the line between your instincts and theirs begins to blur. Moments like this are rare. The animal part of your brain revels in the freedom you've allowed it, but you've been taught that indulging the savage part of your psyche is dangerous; a trump card best left at the bottom of the deck unless no other options remain. You hold on by the barest margin, riding the crest of the storm, hyper-aware that it could swallow you up at any moment.

Suddenly, and without fanfare, the room falls silent; the still-warm bodies of your opponents lying broken and crumpled from one end of the vault to the other. You’re breathing hard, trying to quash the giddy joy fizzing through your system, making it that much harder to retain control, to stay mostly human.You roll your shoulders and find your center, thoughts finally clearing enough for you to remember yourself and where you are.

The machine is still frying Barnes' brain, and he’s still screaming, so you grab one of the hydraulic arms and yank it back off of his skin, then do the same to its opposite on the other side. You turn and face the computer, selecting a command prompt that releases the restraints on his arms.

"Barnes?" you ask, voice raw and still too guttural to really be  _yours_ , adjusting the controls and bringing the chair back upright. He’s lying perfectly still, save for the rapid rise-and-fall of his chest as he breathes. Slowly, groggily, his eyes open. He spits out the bite guard, breathing hard behind bared teeth.

"Where?" he croaks.

"Just a nightmare," you tell him. "A bad memory."

"I don't remember anything like this," he says, finally absorbing the scope of the damage to the vault and its former occupants. The place looks like a slaughterhouse. "How did you—?"

"I wouldn't go looking for a logical explanation,” you offer. "This is happening largely in your subconscious. I don't think there are any concrete rules about what can or can't happen."

He's shivering, still fighting to catch his breath. "I gotta get out of this chair," he gasps, lurching forward. "I gotta—I can’t. This goddamn _chair_. _"_ He turns away from you and his stomach heaves.  You reach forward and slowly press your fingers against the sweat-slick skin of his back.  He doesn’t flinch this time.

“C’mon, I’ll help you up,” you say, circling around to his front and holding out both hands. “Promise I’m stronger than I look.”

“Clearly.”  Slowly, he reaches out for you and with a bit of effort, you get him on his feet. 

"I refused at first," he says after a few moments, though you’re not immediately sure what he means.  He’s resting his chin against your forehead, leaning forward and transferring some of his weight to you.  “In the early days when the Russians had me.  I swear I held out as long as I could. They broke me, but I didn't make it easy for 'em.”

“I believe you, Barnes.”

“How are you even here?” he asks, shivering and jumping at every little sound.  You try to will the room into silence, but it doesn’t work. 

“That’s a bit difficult to explain,” you warn. “Short version is that my sister is capable of something akin to astral projection.  In this particular case, she’s projected me into your head.”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

“Bullshit.”

You can’t suppress the laughter that manages to sneak past your lips. “Would 'magic' be a preferable answer?"

“Would make more sense,” he counters, turning his head to rest his cheek against your hair.  “I’d apologize for having my hands all over you, but I’m too fuckin’ tired to move.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

"Thanks," he says after another long pause. "I never expected a rescue."

"Well, you make a terrible damsel-in-distress," you chuckle darkly.

He glances down at you. "I mean it. I stopped hoping Steve or the Commandos would find me within weeks of being captured. Not that I blamed them for moving on.  They had a war to win."

"It wasn't—He didn't abandon you, Barnes. He crashed Schmidt’s plane into the Arctic not long after you died. Or after he thought you died."

"I know," he admits. "I saw the exhibit at the museum in D.C."

“You went to the Smithsonian?”

"After the battle over the Potomac.  I had to know if what he’d told me was true; that he’d known me my whole life, that we were friends.  I got to the museum and just kept reading the information over and over, the facts and dates. I saw the photos and newsreels, even a few of the letters I’d sent home to my sisters.  They told me—” he swallows hard and you can feel his throat working as he moves closer, as if trying to reassure himself by proximity.  “My handlers told me that I was nobody. That they  _made_ me.  I was dumb enough to believe them."

“Stop that,” you warn. “They didn’t sit you down and have a chat over afternoon tea.  I’ve seen your file. I probably know more about what was done to you than _you_ do, and Steve knows more than me.  It was not that simple.”

He stiffens and fails to suppress a full-body shudder.

“It’s over now,” you soothe. “Everything gets better from here.”

“I don’t know how to be the guy he remembers. The guy from the museum,” he admits.

“He doesn’t expect you to be,” you tell him. “No one does. He’s not the same person from before either.  The war changed you both, and then what happened after changed you even more. That degree of trauma is going to leave significant marks."

He grunts and takes a step back, looking down at your hands resting in his. “So how do you get out of here?” he asks. “Last time you sort of vanished and then I woke up.”

“Bit fuzzy on the particulars myself,” you answer. “I imagine Ana is waiting for some sort of psychic signal that will let her know things have calmed down.  When she knows it’s safe to yank me out, she will.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It’s extremely unpleasant,” you admit with a shrug. "Nothing I can't handle, though.” As if that had been the signal she was waiting for, you feel Ana tugging at the edges of your mind. “Speak of the Devil and he shall appear,” you groan.  “Time’s up. Catch you on the other side.”

The last thing you see is the momentary look of panic on his face, knowing he's about to be left behind again. But then you're back in the safehouse kitchen, and he's relaxed on the sturdy chef's island in the center of the room.

"Welcome back," Rogers says, looking at you and then to Barnes. "You okay?"

"No," Barnes says. "Not remotely."

"But you're here, and you know us, right?"

"Yeah," he sighs. "I know you."

The look of relief, of unadulterated happiness, on Steve's face is so saccharine you think you might go into diabetic shock just for having witnessed it.

"Rogers, if you could fetch whatever medical supplies are available, I'd appreciate it," you interrupt. "I especially need clean gauze, isopropyl alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, a transfusion kit if you can find one and an IV kit if you can’t, saline, and half a liter of O-negative donor blood if it's kept in stock.  I’m not sure if Sergeant Barnes can even develop infections, but a round of strong antibiotics would be helpful, just in case."

Steve drags the back of one hand across his eyes and Barnes looks away. "On it," he says, before slipping out of the kitchen.

Once he’s clear of the room, you shuck your riding jacket off and drag the bloody sweater you’d worn underneath up over your head.  You have a white camisole on underneath and after a quick check to confirm it isn’t soiled as well, you tossed the ruined outer garment into the trash.  No point trying to salvage it.

“We need to get you out of those clothes,” you say to Barnes as he slowly props himself up on his good arm.  “After I clean up your sutures, we should try to get at least half a liter of blood back in you.  Think you can drink some water in the meantime?”

“Yeah,” he nods.  “My stomach is pretty bad, but I can keep most liquids down.”

“You were having trouble with solid food?” you ask, padding across the tile floor to the refrigerator.

“I almost always get sick,” he answers, watching your every move.

You pull a large bottle out of the fridge.  “I suppose your handlers weren’t particularly concerned about a balanced diet, so we might need to do some work rebuilding your digestive system.”

You return to his side on the island and hand him the water.  “Drink slowly. May I?” you motion to the hem of his shirt.  He must have ripped the left sleeve off before cutting into his arm, but the rest of the shirt has been left unmolested.  Aside from being filthy, that is.

He narrows his eyes at you and shrinks back.

“I need to make sure you’re okay aside from the knife wound,” you tell him. “I promise I’ll tell you everything I’m going to do, and I’ll wait for you to give me permission before I do it, okay?”

You watch his Adam’s apple bob before he nods.

“Thank you.  Let’s get you sitting upright first.” You help him adjust his position, swinging his long legs around to hang over the edge before his feet hit the floor. 

“Is it okay if I cut the left side open? I don’t want to have to move your arm if I can avoid it.”

“Why?” he asks, his head listing slightly to the side.

“Because it’ll hurt, and you could pull your stitches.”

He stares at you then finally shakes his head. “I don’t care what you do with it. Burn it if you want.”

You make a non-committal noise and rummage around in several drawers before finding a pair of scissors.

“I’ll do my best not to disturb your shoulder,” you tell him, pulling the bottom of the garment taut before sliding the scissors forward and sheering the material apart in a neat line.  You glance up and see that his gaze is locked firmly on the blades, mouth pressed into a thin, strained line.

“Breathe, Sergeant,” you remind him, carefully setting the scissors aside and peeling the shirt back away from his skin.

There are scars, as you’d expected, and not just the thick, ropey keloids branching out from the prosthetic (and you can't help but note the likelihood that HYDRA mounted it while the metal was still hot enough to burn).  Small puckers of raised flesh indicate old gunshot wounds, and slashes of rough, raised skin mark the places where a knife or some other edged object had parted skin and muscle.

“Your digestive issues may be compounded by a build-up of internal scar tissue,” you mutter, drawing your fingers away from his skin.  “Is it all right if I inspect these with my hands?”

He nods again.  You should probably wait for Rogers to come back with the requested supplies, among which you’re sure you’ll find medical gloves, but there’s no guarantee that Barnes will remain this agreeable much longer.   He seems very nervous about any direct physical contact. Gently, you press your fingers against his lower abdomen, making mental notes of each mark that might be a likely candidate for sub-dermal scarring.  You can't ignore that he's quite a bit underweight for someone of his size and build.  You can clearly see each rib and the outline of his sternum.  His hip bones jut out from behind the waistband of his pants.

“We can break a lot of this down with massage therapy when you’re ready for it.  The deeper damage may need laser treatment or surgery.  We can also discuss using broad spectrum systemic enzymes that will do the same, but you might not need anything that serious given the serum’s augmentations.”

“Yeah, sure,” he breathes quietly.

“I’m sorry, I know this is uncomfortable,” you apologize, pulling your hands away. “But I want you to know you have options, so that when Steve gets you to a proper doctor, you’ll have some basic knowledge of what to ask for, or ask about.”

“Just keep waiting for the pain to start,” he tells you, head hanging low. “Not used to being molly-coddled like this.”

Without thinking, you reach up and press your hand against his cheek. “Hey…”

He doesn’t recoil or try to pull away, but his breath hitches at the contact.

“I know you have _no reason_ to trust me. You don’t know me.  But I need you to hear what I’m saying, Barnes. I will never hurt you if I can help it.  Some of the things I have to do—from a medical perspective—may not be entirely pleasant, but I’ll still do everything I can to minimize the pain I cause.”

“But why?” he asks. “Why make that much effort? It’s all the same in the end.”

“Because you’re a person. Because I don’t want to hurt you and you shouldn’t expect to be hurt.”

He glances up at you from behind the hair that has fallen forward over his brow.

“I know you’ve been conditioned to expect punishment and pain for no better reason than because it amused them, or because it was an expedient way to develop obedience,” you continue. “But you’re not with those monsters anymore.”

“That’s what you don’t get,” he says, shaking his head and pulling away from the hand against his cheek. “I’m the monster.”

"Barnes, that isn't true—" you begin to protest, before the rest of your argument is interrupted.

“Everything okay in here?” Steve asks, slowly re-entering the kitchen, carrying a crate full of jumbled medical equipment and supplies.

“I asked for like, _five things_ , Rogers,” you scold, taking the crate from him and shoving it onto a nearby counter.

“I got to the supply closet and panicked,” he answers with a shrug. “I can’t pronounce half the words on the labels in there.”

You explore the contents of the crate, pulling out the items you need most.

“I see she couldn’t wait to get your shirt off, Buck,” Steve chuckles, though it sounds a bit forced to you.

“We can look for clean clothes once you’ve had a chance to scrub down,” you tell Barnes over your shoulder.  “I’d be happy to let you soak for a few hours, but I’d rather you abstain until your wounds are closed.”

He doesn’t respond, so you turn around to ask him if he’s heard you only to see that he’s shaking hard, from head to foot.  Steve is already moving to hold him steady on the island, afraid he’ll fall off.

“What the—?”

“No cold,” Barnes stammers. “Please. I can just—I can… It’s okay, I don’t mind the dirt.”

“What are you afraid of?” you ask, flanking him; standing by should Steve’s grip on his good arm not be enough to keep him from toppling over as he continues to tremble.

“De-con-tam-in-ation,” he manages, teeth chattering hard.

“Is that what they called it when you were sent to shower? After a mission?”

He nods, goose pimples stippling along his skin like a wild rash.

“They used cold water?” You throw a sidelong glance at Steve, who once again looks angry enough to commit bloody murder upon the first person who so much as _sneezes_ in his friend’s direction.

“Y-yes,” Barnes confirms. 

“We’re not going to do that,” you explain. “Warm water only. Hot, if you prefer.”

His eyes focus on you before he switches his gaze to Steve, as if looking for assurance that you’re telling the truth. 

“I’m going to get the rest of the shirt off, okay? Steve will go find a blanket or a towel so you don’t get too cold while we finish up in here,” you tell him.  The shaking subsides a bit, though he still looks haunted by the prospect of a sponge bath. Fucking HYDRA. Probably hosed him down right before returning him to cryo. Just another tool to be disinfected and put away when they were done using it.

Steve makes sure that you’ve got a solid grip on Barnes before he slips out of the kitchen again, mumbling about a linen closet upstairs that should have extra blankets.

As if he were actually hypothermic, you rub both palms against his good arm, hoping it’ll help counter the phantom chills that have him shivering despite the relative warmth of the house.  Once he settles down again, you finish removing the rest of his clothes (save for his underthings) and a disturbing number of knives strapped and taped to his body, tossing all of it into the corner to sorted out later.  He doesn’t seem body-conscious, which you’re grateful for.  Enough of what you’re doing has him on edge already. 

“How bad is the pain?” you ask him.

“S-still functional,” he says.

“Okay, but if it gets worse, you need to tell me.”

Steve comes back shortly thereafter with a down comforter that looks very warm.

“See? Much better,” you croon softly, helping to drape the blanket over Barnes’ shoulders.  He takes a deep breath and nods.

After thoroughly washing your hands in the kitchen sink, you snap on a pair of gloves and pick up the bag of donor blood. You check the labels for the expiration date and note that it’s relatively fresh and O-negative, as requested, so you’re not worried about compatibility.  You open up the transfusion kit, relieved to find it’s a brand you’re familiar with, and line up the components.

“What's the difference between one of these and an IV?” Steve asks, watching as you set everything up.

“Mmm, a transfusion kit has a double chamber and a mesh filter. Both keep micro thrombi—those are very small blood clots—from being infused into the patient.  Start warming up that blood, would you?”

“How?” he asks, picking up the bag with a barely hidden look of revulsion.

“Just hold it between your hands. We don’t want it to reach room temperature, but it can’t be that cold either.  We should really be using a proper warmer, but—“ you make a vague gesture. “I’m thrilled you keep these kits stocked. This would be dodgy to do with a regular IV.”

After about five minutes, you take the bag back from Rogers and check the contents for any signs of large clots or haemolysis.  Spotting none, you prepare the transfusion line with the ease of dedicated practice, before returning your attention to Barnes.

“I’m going to clean the inside your elbow with antiseptic,” you tell him, waiting for his nod of permission before doing so. “Steve, cut me a few pieces of medical tape, please.”

Rogers does as you ask, watching with barely contained anxiety as you prep the cannula—the “needle” that slides into the vein.

“This is going to sting a bit,” you tell Barnes.  “Still okay to proceed?”

He chews on his bottom lip and stares at the small spot you’d wiped on his arm.  You wait, giving him as much time as he needs. “Yeah, I’m okay. This isn’t as bad as… as I remember.”

“Flatterer,” you tease, sticking your tongue out from between your teeth. “One, two…” you slide the thin tube into the vein, feeling the subtle ‘pop!’ as it moves into place.  “Perfect. Well done.”

 Barnes exhales suddenly, letting go of some of the tension he’d been allowing to build.

“Easy,” you murmur, patting him on the shoulder.  “You’re doing fine, and we’re almost finished.”

You quickly secure the transfusion set and the cannula with the strips of tape Steve prepared earlier.  You raise the bag above your head and watch as the contents slowly make their way down the line at an acceptable rate.

“How long will this take?” Barnes asks, following the arc of your arm.

“About three hours for the whole bag,” you tell him.  “But I doubt we’ll need that much. You’re remarkably resilient.”

He huffs.

“Why, you have somewhere you need to be?” you ask with a crooked grin. “You severed an artery in that brownstone, Barnes.  You’re lucky you didn’t bleed out.”

“Wasn’t thinkin’ clearly,” he grouses, looking away.

“You did that to yourself?” Steve asks, shocked.  “I thought—I figured you took a bad hit in a fight, Bucky. Jesus Christ…”

“Your ma would make you eat half a bar of soap if she heard you swearing like that, Rogers,” Barnes replies.

Steve covers his face with his hands and turns away.

“Take a break,” you suggest to him.  “This is going to be a long night.”

“Copy that,” he says, before slowly wandering out of the room, doing a bad job of hiding the way his shoulders shake as he tries not to _sob_.

“Fuckin’ kid always was too—" Barnes starts.

“Don’t,” you hiss, narrowing your eyes. “Don’t you make fun of him.  He _loves_ you, you big idiot, and he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, except that he has to help you somehow.”

He opens his mouth as if to protest but then clamps it shut. “You—You’re right,” he admits. “But I don’t want him to think… This isn’t permanent.”

“With some time and help, you'll get better—"

“That’s not what I mean,” he says with a slight shake of his head. “I can’t stay with him.  You get me fixed up so I’m not about to keel over, and then I’m gone.  As far away from Steve and his new friends as I can get.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you ask, unable to check your own irritation.

“It’s not safe for me to be around him.”

“Around him is the only place you _are_ safe,” you correct. “If you run off again, do you really think he won’t chase after you? That he won’t be hunting HYDRA down regardless? Do you think he’s spent the last few years doing anything that one might consider remotely safe?”

He gapes at you.

“You are probably the most important person in the world to Steve, but you’re hardly the most dangerous.  He fought off an alien invasion masterminded by a Norse  _god_.  He beat them. He’ll beat HYDRA, too.”

“You don’t know what they’re capable of,” he snaps.  “Anyone he’s close to—"

“He’s not close to anyone save the other Avengers,” you inform him. “He doesn’t socialize, or date, or do public appearances, nothing. Not since S.H.I.E.L.D. fell."

“Doesn’t change what I have to do.  I’m _broken_.  You’re a doctor, or close enough, you really think I’ll get to a point where I’ll be anything but a problem he needs to handle? What’s he gonna do when Uncle Sam figures out who I am and what I’ve been doing for the last seventy years? He supposed to fight that battle for me, too?”

“What makes you think he wouldn't have to do any of that just because you're not around?  Besides, you’re talking about the man who has Tony Stark on speed dial.  Do you have any idea how many lawyers that man keeps on retainer? The Avengers destroyed half the damn city fighting Loki and his hoard.  Can you guess how many people—how many _important_ , well-connected people—tried to sue them, hold them responsible, tried to have them locked up on federal charges after all that?”

He just stares at you, eyes softening around the edges.

“Want to know how much time any of them have spent in jail or even in federal custody for questioning?”

He looks away.

“None, Barnes. Stark had all that nonsense put to bed in a matter of days, and slapped more people and government agencies with legal injunctions and counter-suits than the American legal system had ever seen before.  He had Pepper Potts on every major news network doing damage control, and a small army of PR drones flooding social media and television with support for the Avengers.  It was incredible to watch.”

“I’m not an Avenger. I didn’t save the world,” he protests.

“You’re Steve’s best friend.  You’re a war hero, a Howling Commando; you absolutely saved the world.  Whatever happened after you fell was not your fault. You are not responsible for your own kidnapping, torture, and captivity. If anyone wants to argue otherwise, they won't just have Steve Rogers to answer to."

He sighs and holds his forehead with his good hand.

“You’re safe with him,” you finish. “No more running.  Your war is over.  Now’s the part when you get to go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> "Не сделать это снова" = Don't do that again.
> 
> Делай что хочешь, Я не ваша собака больше." = Do whatever you want. I'm not your dog any more.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

 

“How’re you holding up?” you ask Steve, having left Barnes in the kitchen where he’s managing the transfusion well enough. You don’t plan on leaving him alone for long.

Rogers is sitting at the head of the long table in the dining room. He’s hunched over, plucking at an old-fashioned doily. “I honestly can’t believe we’re sitting here and Buck's just a few feet down the hall,” he says. “Doesn’t seem real, not after chasing him for so long.”

You sigh and slide into the nearest empty seat. “I know things appear grim,” you tell him, “but at least he's doing what we’ve asked of him thus far. He's doing much better than I imagined, to be honest.”

“I know,” he says. “I just wish I could flip a switch and make it... like it was. Like _he_ was.”

“You're doing everything you can,” you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. "Don't forget that you woke up today not even knowing where he was. It's not even six o'clock on the same day and we've got him somewhere safe, we've started addressing his immediate medical concerns, and he's largely coherent. Save for a few dodgy moments there, he knows who he is and who you are. That's a great deal of progress, Steve, especially considering what he's been through."

"I know that too," he huffs. "You don't understand, though. You can't. Bucky, he—. I had nothing. No one. No prospects. I probably would've died that first year without my Ma but Bucky talked me outta my own stupid, stubborn plan to go it alone, and he made sure I didn't think it was charity, y'know? Just like that," he rambles, snapping his fingers. "Everything was okay. And now he needs my help and I can't return the favor. I _can't_ fix this."

"You _are_ fixing it, right now," you insist, reaching across the table and gently pulling the doily from his hands before he tears it to shreds. "And wherever Barnes ends up, however much of himself he pulls back together, it'll be because you never stopped looking once you knew he was still out there. You're a good friend, Steve."

"Yeah," he nods, though he sounds unconvinced. He looks like he wants to say more but hesitates, shaking his head. "Uh, anyway, what happens next, Doc?"

You decide not to press. You've only just met the man and you understand if he doesn't feel comfortable unburdening himself on a relative stranger. "I’m going to go scout the upstairs bathroom and get it ready. Can you keep an eye on things down here while I do that?”

“How much longer should he have that transfusion going?” he asks, standing.

“Only as long as it takes me to get set up. Once he’s clean, we can see if he’s up for food, though he told me he has a hard time with solids. There's chicken and beef broth in the pantry, though I worry that animal proteins might be too much, too soon. On the other hand, the caloric value might be worth the risk."

Steve nods and drifts out of the dining room.

“You should probably eat too,” you call after him. “Any requests?”

“Not fussy,” he calls back.

“Well,” you comment to yourself, “this has been _such_ a fun day.”

 

* * *

 

You don’t plan on actually putting Barnes in the tub, but you fill it to the brim with warm water. This way, he can see it, feel it if he wants to, without risking his sutures or triggering another panic attack. It’s clear he hasn’t had much time for personal hygiene lately and that needs to change if he’s going to avoid infection. Plus, there’s an odor.

Satisfied that the water is heated through, you putter around the bathroom gathering soap, towels, shampoo, and small washcloths. You can hear Barnes and Rogers slowly making their way up the (ridiculously) long staircase, with Steve encouraging his friend as they go.

“That’s it Buck, slow and steady, you can see the steam from here. Told ya she’d make sure it was hot enough…”

Barnes just grunts in response, hovering in the doorway as they finally reach their destination.

“Feeling okay?” you ask, motioning for him to come in and take a seat on the toilet.

“Tired,” he grumbles. “Head hurts.”

He still has the comforter wrapped around his shoulders, so you carefully pull it away, replacing it with a fluffy white towel instead. “Just like before, I won’t do anything or touch you without getting permission first.  Can I unhook the transfusion? I'd like to leave the port in; we may need it over the next few days."

"Sure," he says, extending his arm.

You get everything unhooked, and check the medical tape to make sure nothing has shifted during the process. You drop the half-empty bag of blood into the small trash can next to the toilet. "Ready?"

He nods and glances at the water in the tub.

“I swear it’s not cold,” you tell him. “Would you like me to touch it first?”

He nods again and pays rapt attention as you dip your bare hand into the water. You let it rest there for a few moments before pulling it back out. His right hand snaps forward and he grabs you around your wrist, pulling back until his fingers brush over your palm, feeling the residual heat.

“Okay,” he breathes. _“Okay.”_

Steve hands you one of the smaller cloths and you dip it into the tub, wringing out the excess water before pumping a dot of liquid body soap into the center. You work everything into a lather and then face Barnes again. “We’ll start from the neck down, and wash your face with cooler water from the sink later.”

Slowly but surely, you get him reasonably clean. There’s a lot of dirt, grime, and blood ground into his skin, but you do your best to get the worst of it. He seems pleasantly surprised by the feel of the warm water and soft material against his skin, though you notice he still flinches through most of it.

One final wipe down and you’re satisfied. As mentioned at the start, you take a fresh cloth and run it under cool (though not cold) water from the sink, then press it against the back of his neck (he sighs and sinks into your hand) before washing behind his ears, around to the front of his face.

“Need a shave, Buck,” Rogers comments, leaning against the doorway where he’s been supervising the entire procedure. “Y’look like a bum.”

“I got a beautiful woman waiting on me hand and foot, and I’m the bum?” Barnes counters, and you pinch his earlobe in retaliation. Those grey-blue eyes dart to yours, momentarily alarmed before realizing you’re not really trying to hurt him. “Sorry,” he says, flushing pink along his cheeks. “That was—I didn’t mean to make it sound like…”

You laugh quietly and toss the face cloth into the sink. “Just need to scrub your hair a bit and you’ll be finished,” you tell him. “We can do that in the sink as well, or you can try leaning over the tub. Whichever you prefer, my lord.”

Steve chuckles and helps Barnes onto his feet. He steps toward the sink before looking at you.

“How does this work?”

“Bend over as much as you can. Steve will help you keep your balance.”

The three of you maneuver into place. You turn the tap on again, opting for water hot enough that Barnes can feel the heat from the steam, but not what you would consider scalding.

“We’ll make this quick, I promise,” you tell him, motioning for Steve to help tip him forward a bit more. 

Barnes gives a quick, stiff nod, gripping the rim of the sink with both hands. You work the water into his hair, letting it soak the thick, oily strands. Barnes groans.

“Everything okay?”

“Feels good,” he says, flexing his fingers against the porcelain.

You smile to yourself and add a small amount of shampoo, pressing the tips of your fingers into his scalp and massaging it in. Again, he groans.

“Stop embarrassing yourself,” Steve teases.

“Have you ever had this done?” Barnes asks. “Because it’s pretty fucking incredible.”

Steve just laughs and shakes his head.

“Can we do this every day?” Barnes asks you, turning his head a little more, trying to catch sight of you.

“No,” you admonish with a smile, gathering the water in your hands and pouring it over his head. “Eyes shut or you’ll get shampoo in them.”

He hums and does as you ask, the first hint of a real smile playing at the corners of his lips. Steve is grinning broadly, obviously pleased by the change in his friend's mood. You make sure the suds are washed out before turning the water off. Barnes straightens and you have to stand on tip-toe in order to rub a towel over his head until his hair is reasonably dry. 

“You like it that long?” Steve asks, running his fingers through his own short locks.

Barnes shrugs with his uninjured shoulder. “Never mattered if I liked it or not.”

“Well don’t look at me,” you grouse, draining the tub and gathering up the used towels. “I draw the line at cutting hair. Tried to trim Ana’s once and it was a complete disaster.”

“How bad could it have been?” Steve asks.

“She was five and she still hasn't forgiven me.”

You find the hamper in the hallway and wonder if there’s a cleaning service that comes by to keep the house in order. After you’ve dropped the towels off, you meet Barnes and Rogers in one of the guest bedrooms. Steve is pulling open the closet, looking for clothes that will fit his friend.

“How am I gonna get anything over my arm?” Barnes asks, standing just behind Steve.

“A hoodie should be fine,” he answers, finally finding one that he approves of and passing it back to Barnes.

“Speaking of which, we should really immobilize that shoulder,” you add, helping Barnes into the oversized zip-up.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Don’t like the idea of being restrained.”

“I didn’t think—"

“I know,” he says, accepting a pair of matching sweatpants from Steve. “I’ll need help getting these on.”

"Might want to change those underpants too," you add with a smirk, motioning to the grubby boxer-briefs. "And when you're feeling up to it, wash your bits."

"That not a service you offer either?" Barnes asks, and though he's trying to sound suave, the blush traveling across his cheeks and nose give him away.

"Good lord, buy a lady a drink first, Sergeant," you laugh. "Alas, you're on your own where that area is concerned."

He just nods, still blushing, and you excuse yourself while he and Steve wrestle with clean underthings and pants, a volley of swear words exchanged between them both before he finally walks out of the bedroom fully clothed at last.

“You look much better,” you observe. “And you smell better, too.”

“No arguments there,” he agrees. “Steve said something about food?”

You nod and motion for both soldiers to follow as you head back downstairs to the kitchen. “Broth, probiotics, and a metric ton of vitamins and supplements for you, Sergeant. I think I spotted two steaks in the fridge for the Captain and I.”

“I get soup while you two dine on filet? You’re a mean person,” he huffs from behind you. “Anybody ever tell you that?”

“I teach at a school full of ostracized mutant children,” you tell him. “ _Mean_ is hardly the worst thing I've been called.”

“Thought you were a doctor,” he says. “Or something close to it.”

“She put her career on hold so she could take care of her sister,” Steve explains. 

The three of you move into the kitchen. Steve helps Barnes into an empty chair at the small table set inside a windowed alcove before tracking down silverware, cups, plates, and a bowl for Barnes.

 

* * *

  

A little over an hour later and everyone has eaten to your satisfaction. Barnes looks sleepy enough to fall face-first into his empty bowl.

“Time for bed, I think,” you tell Steve.

“Just ten more minutes,” Barnes whines in an alarmingly accurate impression of a cranky child.

“C’mon, big boy,” you grunt, getting him onto his feet with Steve’s assistance. He loops his right arm around your shoulders and smirks to himself.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

“If someone had told me that _this_ was how today would go, I woulda called him a damned liar,” he tells you. “Not saying I’ve changed my mind about what we went over earlier, but this isn’t so bad.”

“It’s gonna be okay, Buck,” Steve adds, looking nearly as tired.

“Don’t know about ‘okay,’ Rogers, but I’m not covered in my own filth, no one’s tried to shoot me in at least twenty-four hours, and I’ve got food in my belly. Don’t even feel like throwing it up. That’s a pretty fucking good day in my book.”

“C’mon, Maudlin McGee, let’s get back upstairs. There’s a California King up there with your name on it.”

“Floor’s fine,” he says as you head up to the second level. “You an’ Stevie can have the bed.”

“Stevie and I will each have our _own_ beds as this house has several bedrooms. I expect we’ll take turns keeping an eye on you while you rest.”

“Just don’t let me wake up alone,” he says as the three of you move into the master bedroom. “I can’t—I can’t completely trust that this isn't just a dream, or some fucked up hallucination. I’ll lose it again.”

You catch Steve’s gaze behind Barnes’ back as you get him settled on the floor. “Are you sure we can’t convince you to sleep in the bed?” you ask. “It’d be better for your arm.”

“No, this is great. It’s perfect, really. I’ve been sleeping in alleys and sewers for months. This is the Ritz, doll.”

Steve offers him a pillow, which he rejects, and a blanket. Barnes then quickly claims all of the blankets, even asking Steve if he can get the big down comforter from earlier.

“You’ll suffocate with that many,” you warn. “Or overheat.”

“No,” he counters. “Always cold. Doesn’t matter how many blankets there are. I’ll always be cold.”

Steve looks like he understands and leaves to do as Barnes requested.

You roll your eyes and throw up your hands. "Fine, suit yourself. Sleep on the floor in a mountain of Egyptian cotton and goose feathers."

“Here ya go, Buck,” Steve says as he returns with the comforter. Barnes spools it around himself, sighs, and lays back, eyes already drifting shut.

“Prolly gonna wake up screamin’,” he says. “Give me a few minutes, though, it’ll pass.”

Steve swallows hard before motioning for you to take the bed. "I'm gonna go take a walk," he says, moving into the doorway. "You okay to stay with him until I get back?"

“Of course,” you tell him.

“Stop worrying so much,” Barnes adds from his nest on the floor.

“I won't be long." With that, Steve leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

"Get some sleep, Sergeant," you instruct, climbing into the oversized bed and stretching your tired limbs.

You wait for his breathing to even out before briefly considering making a call to Ana, just to let her know everything is okay. A quick glance at your phone squashes that notion, as it’s long past midnight. No sense waking her just to tell her everything’s fine and she should go back to sleep.

You're starting to zone out when Barnes arches off the floor, choking on a scream of pain and terror.

You jump off the mattress and reach for his convulsing form, careful of his stitches, and holding on to the back of his head, pressing down against his good arm with yours as he tries to tear at himself.

"Barnes!  _Barnes!"_

His eyes flutter open and for a second he doesn't know you. Then his breath comes out in a rush as he relaxes, sweaty and dazed.

"Nightmare," he explains, trying to sit up and only managing to lay his head between your neck and shoulder, holding on to you with his flesh hand. "Goddamn. How long was I out?"

"Minutes," you inform him quietly. "Maybe five or ten."

He says nothing in response, just breathes unsteadily against your shoulder.

“Is the pain worse?”

He nods and pulls you closer, hiding his face.

“We can try something like what they used on Steve in the hospital,” you suggest. “Start at a half a dose and go from there.”

“You’re the doctor,” he says, twisting his fingers in your shirt as he fights to get his breathing back under control.

“Okay,” you shush, “Breathe with me. In,” you inhale. “Out,” you exhale slowly. “In…”

Eventually, he’s able to synchronize with you. “Sorry,” he says, pulling back, shame-faced.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” you tell him. “You needed help and you asked for it. As soon as Steve gets back, I’ll find out what he knows about the cocktail they worked up for him.”

You sit with Barnes, reassuring him without becoming patronizing until Steve returns.

“What happened?” he asks, stepping into the room, startled to find you both crouched on the floor.

“I think he’s having night terrors,” you tell Steve. “His arm is bothering him more, too. I need to see a list of the drugs they used on you so I can work out the math for him.”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve says, pulling out his own cell phone and thumbing through a few screens. “I kept the file just in case.”

He turns the phone around in his hand and passes it to you.

“Good lord, Rogers. This ought to kill a rhino.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “It took them a while to figure out the right combination.”

“They keep any here?”

“Not sure if this place got a supply drop after things went south,” he says. “It was pretty chaotic, after...”

“I’ll check that supply cabinet. Basement?”

Steve nods and sits down on the corner of the bed, watching Barnes with an open look of concern on his face.

You waste no time and quickly make your way to the basement, locating the large industrial cabinet packed with medical supplies. You open a small lockbox with the key still slotted and find neat rows of glass vials. Each row has a different label, and you note all are opioids (morphine, oxycodone, hydromorphone, meperidine, alfentanil, fentanyl, remifentanil, sufentanil, and etorphine). There are other boxes as well, and you correctly guess they have other kinds of drugs carefully stored and labeled inside.

You check Steve’s phone again and start pulling out the vials of what you need. According to the data, his doctors had also used an advanced StarkTech-designed delivery system. You frown, scanning the shelves for such a device. Luck seems to be with you; you locate an entire case full of gadgets and scanners and who knows what stamped with the company’s iconic logo.

You find the item you’re looking for, frowning briefly as you realize it’ll need to be attached to Barnes’ body in order to work properly. You don't think he'll like that.

There’s a small table next to the cabinet that you spread out all of your supplies on. You set up the regulator, pleased to see that it’s been designed to be used intuitively. You don’t need to have a ton of training (or even very little training) to use it properly.

You do some quick math in your head and start portioning out the different painkillers, injecting each one into the delivery system when prompted. The system warns you that your mixture is only suitable for someone with a metabolism that seems to be within Barnes' likely parameters. An un-augmented human, the computer warns, has a 99.87% likelihood of overdosing on such a cocktail.  It asks if you wish to proceed anyway, and you select “yes” from the projected screen.

A flashing yellow light switches to green and the system is ready for use.

“Brilliant,” you exhale, scooping it up and heading back upstairs.

 

* * *

 

 “Find what you needed?” Steve asks as you re-enter the room.

“Surprisingly, yes,” you tell him, holding up your payload.

“What’s that?” Barnes asks, leaning against the end of the bed, still wrapped up in blankets and looking slightly disheveled.

“StarkTech,” you tell him. “This is going to dose you at regular intervals after it analyzes your metabolism. It’s made for people like you and Steve. Think of it as a very high-tech, portable IV-drip.” You crouch down next to him and motion for his arm. “We’re going to attach it right to the cannula, so you might feel a little discomfort as I get the port lined up and secure, but once the drugs start flowing…”

“Do it,” he says, straightening his arm a bit more.

He holds still as you roll up his right sleeve, and you neither comment nor move to stop him when then does the same to the left. Perhaps it's an old habit from when he had a flesh-and-blood arm there, but it seems unnecessarily cruel to question him on it. You follow the command prompts from the device, hooking up the delivery system.

“Positive seal," the machine announces in a pleasant voice. "Please attach the system to the patient.”

You pull a strip of paper off the back and press the device against the skin of Barnes' arm. It adheres easily. You pull against it slightly and are pleased that everything stays in place.

“Feel okay so far?” you ask, marveling at the little device. It’s a bit bigger than your iPhone, and is slightly malleable so it conforms to the shape of Barnes’ arm.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he says. “Is it working?”

“You tell me,” you answer.

“Analyzing patient,” the machine announces.

"Christ," Barnes swears as the machine draws blood from his arm.

“Processing. Please standby.”

“Tony made this?” Steve asks, raising a brow. “He never said… They must have used this on me in the hospital.”

“Or something like it. This one is definitely made to be used in the field by someone with no medical background. It’s kind of idiot-proof. Rather incredible, honestly.”

“Yeah, you should try it some time,” Barnes grinds out as the device vibrates again and then pushes the first round of drugs into his system.

"They do burn a bit at first, but—" You look up and watch as his pupils constrict to pinpoints. "The important thing is that they work."

He takes a deep breath and seems to melt against the bed. "You ain't kidding," he slurs, allowing a tired smile to creep across his face.

Steve gets him back into a prone position on the floor. Once he's settled, you start to stand, intending to return to the bed to take watch while Steve finds an empty room to catch a few hours of sleep, but Barnes grabs your hand and holds you in place.

"Stay. Just until I'm out," he requests, eyes already closed.

You look up at Steve and wave him off as he gets ready to protest. 

"Okay," you cover Barnes’ hand with your own, patting it reassuringly. "I'll stay as long as you want."

He nods and you wait for his breathing to slow, for the stress lines in his face to fade. His grip on your hand remains though, and you don't have the heart to break away. You fold yourself against the floor and get as comfortable as possible.

"You should get some sleep," you tell Steve.

"Sorry,” he says, motioning to where Barnes has captured your hand in his own. “I know you didn’t sign up for this. Can I get you anything?"

"A pillow would be nice," you respond, catching the one he immediately tosses down to you with your free hand and stuffing it under your head.

"Anything else?"

"I'm good, really. We can swap out in a few hours. I’ll sleep through the afternoon, no worries.”

“What if he wakes up and tries to fight you?” Steve says. “He packs one helluva punch.”

You chuckle quietly. “I think I can handle it. I’m actually more concerned that I’ll hurt _him_ if he gets worked up. If I yell, you come running, yeah?”

“Or I can just sleep on the bed in here,” he says, then flushes scarlet right up to the tips of his ears. “Um, if that’s okay with you. I don’t want to, that is, I um…”

“Lie down before you hurt yourself, Rogers,” you laugh, muffling the noise against your shoulder. “I promise I won’t take advantage of you while you get your beauty rest.”

“Brat,” he says, getting comfortable. "Wake me if you get tired," he murmurs, and then quickly drops off.

You exhale slowly, squeeze Barnes’ hand as he shivers in his sleep, and hope your vigil manages to keep the worst of the nightmares away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this story is enjoyable so far. I'm having a lot of fun (re)writing it and fleshing out the (kinda, sorta rushed) storyline I originally shared on ff.net. Sorry if it seems like a "slow burn." I promise stuff happens. ;)
> 
> Update: As suggested, I've tried to clarify that Barnes' sleeves are rolled up prior to the events of Ch. 6. Hopefully the added bit isn't too awkward. This was the smoothest version I came up with; everything else was super clunky. Thanks to k/bluebird for pointing it out! :)


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

 "Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

 

Barnes wakes you before Steve, shifting from side to side in his nest of blankets.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice low to keep from startling him.

He freezes and remains silent, but you can hear how his breath rate increases slightly.

“If the pain is getting bad again—"

“N-no,” he whispers back. “Forgot where I was for a minute. Need to hit the head.”

“Want me to help you get down the hall?”

He re-positions himself so he can look at you in the dim light of the room. “Maybe.”

You snort and get to your feet, holding out your hands for him to take with his good arm.  Again, he hesitates, studying you in the near-dark, and flexes the metal hand of his prosthetic. “C’mon, tough guy,” you prod. “Let's get you to the toilet.”

He huffs and drags his right hand through his hair before finally allowing you to pull him up to his feet. “I'm not an invalid,” he grouses, getting his arm around your shoulder while he catches his balance.

“I know you’re not,” you assure him.  “Humor me.”

You carefully lead Barnes to the bathroom. “Can you manage on your own in there?” you ask, allowing Barnes to shuffle through the door first. He scowls at you over his shoulder and shuts the door in your face. “One step forward, ten steps back,” you mutter to yourself, turning to lean against the adjacent wall.

Several long minutes go by and you have to constantly remind yourself that eavesdropping on someone while they urinate is a breach of privacy and also a bit manky.  Just as you’re about to knock to make sure he hasn’t done himself another injury, you hear the tap turn on. You exhale slowly, relieved, and turn back to wait as he washes up.

Something crashes against the bathroom wall, and a choked off shout of pain has you spinning around to throw the door open.  It doesn’t budge.

“You locked it?!” you shout.  Your irritation is supplanted with growing alarm as another series of crashes resound from within, along with a hollow _‘thunk!’_ that sounds all kinds of bad. “Steve!” you call, looking down at the door of the bedroom. “We have a situation!”

Rogers comes scrambling out of the bedroom, still bleary-eyed with sleep, and glances from you to the door you’re slamming your shoulder into in an attempt to force it open.

“What—?”

“I think he fell,” you tell him, throwing yourself against the door again, feeling the solid wood give a little this time. “I should have gone in with him.”

“I got it,” Steve says, taking your place. He steps back and begins to raise his leg, preparing to kick the door down when it’s suddenly yanked open from the inside.  Across the threshold, face slick with blood, stands The Winter Soldier.

Not James Barnes.

Not Bucky.

“Oh fuck,” you manage to get out before the assassin is launching himself at Steve, landing a solid punch to the Captain’s face.

“Buck, no!” Steve cries out, stumbling back against the railing that lines the opposite length of the hall.  On the other side is a substantial drop to the foyer below.

The two men grapple; the Soldier hampered by his injured arm and Rogers trying not to cause any unnecessary injury to his addle-brained friend.

Barnes drops his bad shoulder and shoves up and forward, driving Steve back into the wall behind him.  Plaster and crumbling sheetrock break away as Steve rolls to the side, putting some distance between himself and his attacker. 

“Я завершу свою миссию!” Barnes screams, fury twisting his face into a terrifying mask that is almost unrecognizable. He barrels forward, drawing his metal arm back to deliver another devastating blow.   

“Bucky, stop, c’mon! You know me,” Steve pleads, holding both hands out. “I don’t want to fight you. You gotta think!” 

But _Bucky_ is far away from this place, from this time, and The Winter Soldier doesn’t hesitate to slam his curled fist forward, straight into Steve’s sternum.  

 _T_ _hat_ , you realize with a shock of fear, _might_  actually _kill him_. 

“Barnes!” you shout, picking up what is likely a very expensive vase off a nearby console before hurling it at his back. He stumbles forward from the impact, then shakes his head like a dog, ridding himself of the shards of porcelain scattered in his hair. 

“No—” Steve wheezes from the floor, rolling onto his side as blood trickles from the corners of his mouth.  “Don’t, he’ll—" 

“Come on!” you provoke, picking up another knick-knack off the table; a metal sculpture of some dead philosopher with serious heft to it. 

“Вы,” he seethes, turning to face you. “не моя миссия.” 

“Make an exception,” you taunt. “Just this once.”   

Anything to get him away from Steve, at least until he can get back on his feet.  Another strike like that to his breastbone and his entire chest cavity might cave in.  You fling the statue at Barnes, but he blocks it with his metal arm, the contact throwing sparks. He stalks forward, every inch the predator. You hold your ground, keep your posture relaxed, and subtly roll your weight onto the balls of your feet.  Once he steps into striking range, you’ll— 

“No, Buck!”  Steve is back on his feet, throwing himself at his friend in an attempted tackle.  Barnes sweeps him aside with a dismissiveness that borders on insulting, and sends Steve—broken ribs and all—flying down the staircase.  Rogers tumbles into the banister on the right, snapping the thick wood and then dropping the last few feet onto the floor below.  He lies still and you don’t have time to check if he’s still breathing before Barnes is on you. 

There’s no avoiding it now.  You tried, _really tried_ , not to take things to this level, but the Soldier holding you up by your throat in his titanium-alloy grip isn’t going to stop on his own. Wherever Barnes went, he’s buried too deep beneath HYDRA’s conditioning to claw his way back to the surface unaided. 

“I’m sorry,” you sputter, fingers straining against the metal digits squeezing the life out of you.  “Barnes, I’m sorry.” 

You change. 

Suddenly, Barnes isn’t holding a small-ish woman off the ground by the neck, and he stumbles back, confused. The bear—that is, _you_ —remains on its hind legs, looking down at the creature still scrabbling at the fur and fat of its chest.  You grunt; a shallow, breathy sound meant to scare him further away.  A warning. 

He hits you instead. 

The blow is ringing and snaps your skull to the side, into the wall.  You drop to all fours and whine, confused, the taste of your own blood in your mouth. Then the anger comes. Like a white-water cataract, it slams into you, overwhelming, and you rear back on your hind legs once again, towering over your attacker.  Slathering jaws open wide and this time you _roar_. Before your attacker can react, you backhand him, mostly against cheek and temple, and he crashes through the railing then drops out of sight. 

You have to be sure that he won't get back up, that he won't return to hurt you again. You need to rip him open and drag everything out, dig a hole and leave what you don't eat buried as a warning to other would-be aggressors. Anger surges white-hot through your bloodstream, and you charge down the stairs, remarkably agile for a creature so huge.  Your quarry is struggling to his feet, holding the side of his head where you’d hit him with a paw the size of a dinner plate. 

“демон,” he mutters, swaying. “демон!” 

His panicked bleating means nothing, barely registers, and you rush forward, angry piggy eyes locked on your prey.  He stumbles back, falls, stares up at you as you come crashing down, pinning him with more than seven-hundred pounds of muscle, fat, and bone. He still tries to look up, tries to squirm away, struggling against your weight.  His throat arches, veins standing out against pale, sweaty skin, and you feel your lips curl back to bare yellow teeth slick with saliva.  

Then someone is calling your name— _your name—_ and the bear’s mind slides beneath your own, fighting the whole way, convinced that it still needs to kill the thing that hurt it, hurt you.  It desperately wants to tear through Barnes' soft belly, wants to feel the hot rush of his blood in its mouth and then—

Recoiling in horror from what you'd come so close to doing, you release the bear entirely, silencing its mind and all its instincts. You feel the discharge of matter and energy as the predator shrinks away, leaving you—in your own skin—crouched over Barnes, naked as the day you were born.

 

* * *

  

Barely a moment passes before you initiate another shift, growing a thick layer of dark, leathery scales over your body, the pattern taking on the general shape of a body-suit.  It’s a useful trick, one you would never admit to stealing from Darkholme (but you had, and it’s a great idea, and you don't care what anyone at home has to say about it).

Barnes is frozen beneath you, exhausted and bloodied.

“что ты?” he gasps, cradling his metal arm against his chest. The navy fabric of his hoodie darkens at the shoulder, wet with welling fresh blood. “что ты? что ты? что ты?”

 _What are you?_ he’s asking, over and over, eyes staring out at nothing.

“Steve, I think he’s going into shock,” you announce, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

The other man is still lying on the floor, surrounded by splinters of broken wood from the railing he’d crashed into. “Tell him to get in line,” Rogers groans, rolling to one side.

“I’m serious,” you hiss, pressing a hand against his shoulder, further sickened by the warm wetness of the fabric.  “Fuck, Steve, I really hurt him.”

Rogers manages to get himself onto his feet and staggers over. “We have to get him restrained somehow,” he says, and there’s a liquid sucking quality to his voice that worries you deeply.

“I think you might have a punctured lung, Rogers,” you tell him, moving over to rest the majority of your weight on Barnes’ good arm, and motioning for Steve to do the same to its bionic counterpart. “And I thought you said there wasn’t anything in this house that _could_ hold him.”

“Can you call your sister?” he asks, wheezing, blood dripping from his mouth and nose.

“Phone is upstairs. I’d have to leave you with him and I don’t trust this sudden calm,” you answer. “Besides, I think Ana is tapped out. I’m not sure it’d be safe to send me in right now, not when she's so tired.”

“Должны устранить цель,” Barnes says, making a feeble attempt to shove you away with his good arm. 

“There is no target, Barnes. You failed your mission and HYDRA abandoned you. They’ll kill you if they ever figure out where you are,” you tell him.  “You don’t work for them anymore.” 

“Snap out of it, buddy,” Steve adds, bracing hard against the metal arm beneath him. 

The Soldier snarls, redoubling his efforts to throw you both off of him. 

“You’re losing blood you can’t spare,” you warn him. “If we were really your enemies, would we be trying so hard to keep you alive?” 

“Сука,” he sneers. “Демон сука.” 

“Oh, he’s _charming,_ ” you mutter.  The bloom of blood where his wound must have reopened seems slower, but he'll need a new row of stitches sooner rather than later. 

“What’s he saying?” Steve asks. 

“Not worth repeating,” you reply with a shake of your head.  You return your attention to the assassin. “I’ve walked in your mind,” you tell him. “I know how dark it is and how scared you are; of them, of yourself, of the things you’ve done and might do.  But Barnes… I’ll tell you again what I’ve told you before; you are safe. We are not going to hurt you.  If you can’t remember that much, fine.  But please stop fighting us.” 

“Моя миссия…” he trails off before swallowing several times. “I-I have to…” 

“Back to English,” Steve observes with a hint of relief, though he doesn’t let up on Barnes’ arm. 

“C’mon, Sergeant, stop fighting your own brain.” 

“Noise,” he hisses, mouth drawn back into a rictus grin. “All noise, there's no… no _meaning_.” 

“It’ll come,” you tell him, hoping you’re following his broken thought process closely enough. 

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.  You were born on March 10, 1917, almost a year before me. Never let me forget it either.  We grew up together, we—" Steve recites to him. 

“Нет!” Barnes screams, but his voice breaks at the end and he shudders.  “No—That’s not—I can’t be…” 

“Let it come,” you tell him, feeling the tension seep out of his body.  “It’s okay. Just let it come.” 

He sucks in a stuttering breath and closes his eyes. 

“Buck?” Steve asks. 

The tremor starts in his hands then works up his arms.  You push yourself off of him completely and gesture for Steve to do the same.  Within seconds, Barnes is shaking hard from head-to-foot, neck and back bowing painfully. 

“Jesus Christ, what’s—?” 

“He’s having a seizure.  He must have had one in the bathroom earlier; that was the commotion I heard, and then he hit his head on the sink when he fell.  Should have anticipated this,” you grind out. “We need to turn him on his side so he doesn’t choke.” 

“Can’t we hold him or—"

“No, this has to run its course. Help me move him,” you answer, taking Bucky by the shoulders and starting to tip him towards you. “Barnes, you’re going to be fine,” you tell the convulsing man, grateful as Steve braces his friend on the other side.  “It’ll be over soon.” 

“Is this because of the mind wipes?” Steve asks, and you note that his voice sounds stronger than earlier. Does he really heal that fast? 

“Probably, but we have no way of knowing how much damage the cryo-freeze process did to his brain, or what that arm is doing to the rest of his body.” 

“The _arm_ could be doing this?” 

“Seizures have a variety of causes. I’d need to do an electroencephalography to rule out epilepsy—I don't think that's what this is, though—a CT scan, MRI, test his electrolytes, blood glucose, and calcium levels, conduct an electrocardiogram, maybe even a lumbar puncture.  Full blood panel, toxicology screen… I told you; he needs to be in a hospital.  We have too many variables here and no practical way to investigate any of them.” 

Barnes’ violent shaking eventually evens out into a subtle shiver.  He’s struggling to draw breath, so you carefully apply pressure to his jaw, forcing it open wider and check to make sure he isn’t choking. 

“Easy,” you tell him as his eyes flutter open. “You’re okay.” 

“W-where?” he manages before closing his eyes again. 

“We’re in Queens, in a safehouse, remember?” 

“Who?” 

You're about to remind him of your name when you realize—with a flush of shame—that you’d never actually given it to him or Rogers, though the latter seems to know it already, probably through Fury. You introduce yourself properly, then provide an overview of how you’d met yesterday, filling in the gaps as his neurons start firing normally again. 

“I remember,” he says. 

“Good,” you encourage him. “You might feel some lingering confusion—"

“No shit,” he scowls, glancing down and to his left to take in the new damage to his shoulder. 

“—But that will fade as you continue to come around.” 

“The hell happened?” he asks. “I remember going into the bathroom and then everything was bright lights and pain. Like someone was cracking my skull open with an ice pick.”  

“Well I don’t know for sure, you wouldn’t let me in with you, but I think you had an epileptic episode and then hit your head on the way down.  Steve and I tried to get in to help you, but—"

“I attacked you,” he breathes, closing his eyes once more. 

“Yeah.  No one died though, so don’t feel too bad about it.” 

“I dunno,” Steve mutters. “Felt like he killed me twice over.” 

Barnes huffs at both of you and tries to sit up.  You press him back down, shaking your head ‘no,’ explaining that he needs to rest.  There’s a pretty good chance he’ll have a follow-up seizure and there’s no point having him up on his feet only to crash to the ground again. 

“So are we going to talk about how you turned into a bear?” Steve asks, sitting back on his haunches. 

“I assumed Fury explained what I could do before arranging our meeting,” you tell him. “Look, we can discuss that later.  Stay here with Barnes—"

“Really hate it when you two get to talkin’ like I’m not here,” Barnes growls. 

“— _Stay here with Barnes_ ,” you repeat. “And I’ll go fetch a suture kit to get this laceration closed up again. I need to check to make sure none of the sub-dermal or vascular sutures pulled. Be a bloody miracle if they're intact.” 

“Thanks for that, Rogers.” 

“You hit _me_ , you jerk,” Steve returns as you get up and trot down the adjoining hall toward the kitchen.  “She’s the one who clobbered you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love making my characters address my oversights as if they were planned. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Also, a huge 'thank you' to everyone who has commented, bookmarked, and given kudos so far. Each acknowledgment means SO much to me. When you're convinced that the silly story you've had banging around in your head for months won't be embraced by the fandom, it's both a relief and an enormous compliment to be told otherwise. <3
> 
> As requested, here are the Russian-to-English translations when not provided in the story itself:
> 
> “Я завершу свою миссию!” = I will complete my mission!  
> “Вы не моя миссия.” = You are not my mission.  
> “демон!” = Demon!  
> “Сука” = Bitch  
> “Моя миссия…” = My mission...  
> “Нет!” = No!
> 
> I think that's all of 'em. :)
> 
> Update: Made further adjustments relating to Barnes' shoulder wound. Protagonist can no longer see through his clothing (...that'd be a whole different fic, amirite?). :P


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

 "Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

 

You get Barnes and Rogers sorted with as little fuss as possible.  

Somehow, the deeper sutures haven’t been damaged, so it doesn’t take long to stitch Barnes back up.  You cover the line of black surgical thread with sterile pads, and then tape them down to provide a little more protection from further irritation.  The knuckles of his right hand are skinned raw, but he won’t let you do more than clean them.  The side of his face where you’d hit him is a mess of yellow and purple bruises. 

“You hit like a freight train,” he scowls as you wipe the blood from the split skin beneath his eye.

“Could say the same for you,” you mutter, tossing the soiled gauze onto the floor. “Just be glad I didn’t use claws.  Pretty sure your brains would be splattered all over the walls.”

He falls silent after that, but allows you to ice down the bruising after you make sure neither his orbital socket or the zygomatic bone are fractured. 

Steve’s nose needs to be readjusted; the crooked angle of the bridge straightening with an audible crackle.  You give him an instant cold pack which he balances on his face to keep the swelling down.  All you can do for his ribs is wrap him tightly with semi-flexible bandages and then tape the hell out of them.

You sit with the two men as they nurse their respective injuries, perched on the staircase next to Rogers.

After a long silence, Steve pulls the pack away and looks sidelong at you, squinting through double black-eyes.

“We gonna have that talk now?” he asks, motioning with one finger to the grey-black scales covering up your private bits.

“Mmm, not sure my colleagues would approve of my sharing that information,” you consider. “But I suppose you can ask whatever you’re curious about. If I decline to answer, don’t take it personally.”

“Fair enough,” he nods, taking a moment to sort out his own thoughts. “What are you? I mean, in terms of your abilities.”

“The commonly accepted terminology is ‘shapeshifter,’ or ‘metamorph.’  I’ve heard others, but those are the two I prefer,” you tell him.  “Some shapeshifters can only mimic the forms of other people, while those like myself have a greater flexibility.”

“How much greater?” he presses.

“You saw the bear,” you sigh. “There are only two other shifters that we know of with the degree of control I have, and none with the range.  I can move between complete forms, pick-and-choose specific components from entirely different species, or just make micro-adjustments to my own body.”

“So when your eyes changed yesterday at the cafe?”

“A micro-adjustment.  Those are the kinds of changes that don’t necessarily come from alternate source material.  More like enhancing what I already have. Better hearing, better reflexes, that sort of thing.”

 “And the other kind?” Barnes croaks from the floor.

You quirk a brow, surprised that he's even paying attention to the conversation.  You honestly thought he'd checked out again, he’d been so quiet.

“Those are trickier. They take a lot more concentration to maintain.  For example, I can replicate the genetic sequences that build venom glands, fangs, and the neuro- and cytotoxins that spitting cobras use to blind or kill their prey.  Usually amounts to a very bad day for whoever is trying to bash my face in, but it comes at a cost; namely that I have to constantly _think_ about what I'm doing, otherwise the change evaporates.”

Both men fall quiet again, though Steve is staring at you with a mix of fear and awe that you find extremely disconcerting.

“You’re serious?” he finally asks.

“Yes, Rogers, I’m serious. Whatever I need to maintain an edge or survive a situation,” you answer with a tilt of your head. “You freaking out?”

“A little,” he admits, smiling to take the sting out of the admission. “I thought I had a pretty good grasp of just how strange the world is nowadays.”

You chuckle quietly, gathering up some of your medical supplies that lay scattered around you and packing them back into your kit.

“If—" Barnes starts, quieter than before. “If you get hurt…”

“I don’t. Not really,” you explain, pushing yourself away from the stairs and walking over to where he’s stretched out on the floor. You crouch down, gently draping your hand over the one he has pressed to the icepack on his face and lifting it away so you can check the bruising underneath. “Injuries don’t alter your genetic code, and mine is _very_ good at maintaining the status quo.  If I get hurt, I just reset the sequences responsible for building the bits that were damaged.  Everything grows back in seconds, sometimes fractions of seconds.  I only feel pain long enough to recognize that I’ve been wounded. Then the receptors get switched off, maybe dissolved completely. I can do that by choice, but it’s usually more of an unconscious reaction, like breathing or blinking.”

“So if—" He glances over at his metal arm.

“If I lost an arm, I’d grow a new one.  Whole limbs take a bit longer than most injuries. That burns a lot of energy, almost as much as a full shift.  But it wouldn’t kill me, or even hurt very much.  Itches like the devil, though I suspect that's more psychosomatic than anything else.”

He sighs and closes his eyes. “Must be nice.”

“I suppose I don’t appreciate it nearly enough.  There are negative side effects, but I’d rather not get into them,” you finish, guiding his hand back down to press the cold pack against his face once more.

“When you become an animal, is it always wild like that?” Steve asks, gently probing his nose with one finger before your withering glare causes him to stop.

“No, that was… That hasn’t happened for a long time. Not since I was a kid, when my mutation first manifested.”

“What went wrong?”

“I can only theorize.  I think that whatever Ana did to get me inside Barnes’ mind severed things that are still being sorted out.  When she pushed me back inside my body it felt like having my left foot crammed into my right shoe.  May take a few days to sort myself out. When I shapeshift into a different organism, I get all the instinctual baggage that’s hardwired into their brains.  As I wasn’t quite fitting into my own head yet, the bear was able to take control, to overwhelm my consciousness.  When you yelled my name, it was like getting doused with ice water. Shocked me enough to regain command.”

“Sounds like a solid theory,” Steve agrees.

“Sounds like she had her soul ripped out of her body just to—"

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, Barnes,” you chide. “I’m a grown woman. I make my own decisions and accept that those decisions may lead to consequences I don’t particularly like. I did what needed doing.”

He glares at you from one eye, the other hidden behind the cold pack. “But—"

“Stop,” you insist, pressing one hand against his chest as he struggles to sit up. “I don't regret it, and I'll do it again if need be."

“Why?” he asks, almost choking on the word, unable to look at you directly.

“Because you don't deserve the cage they built for you.  I can’t walk away from this,” you pause, lifting your hand from his chest.  “Because it's the right thing to do.”

“We’ve got your back, pal,” Rogers adds, slowly getting to his feet.  “We’re in your corner.”

The man on the floor closes his eyes as the tears come, slow and without fanfare.  The ice pack slides to the floor as he covers his face with his hand, hiding.

 

* * *

  

Barnes’ breakdown feels like a knife twisting in your guts and you look to Steve for help.

“I got this,” he says, bracing against you as he settles down on the floor next to his friend. “Give us a minute?”

You nod, grateful for the reprieve, and retreat to the adjacent living room.  You fall heavily into an overstuffed wingback, drawing your bare legs up to your chest.

You’ve counseled a lot of damaged kids over the years, first as one of the older students at the school, and now as a member of the staff.  Hell, you’d been one of the most defiant wards that Charles had taken under his wing, at least in recent memory. 

You remember feeling like you had no control over your own emotions, how despite knowing you could handle just about anything the world threw at you, that you only wanted to curl up in a corner and cry, wait for someone else to come and fix everything, to hold you and tell you lies about how it would all be okay in the end, and that you deserved to be saved. That your life had intrinsic value, and always had, and the problem had been  _other people_ , not you, not some innate flaw that made you unlovable, that made you magnet for disappointment, and violence, and  _death_.

Perhaps that’s why you feel yourself becoming personally invested in Barnes’ situation. You can't deny this has become more than a simple search-and-rescue, more than a favor done for someone in the position to return it—with interest—at some point in the future.  It isn't idle curiosity, or a subconscious desire to piss off the team by getting yourself tangled up in business that isn't expressly yours. In less than a day, you’ve gone from reluctantly agreeing to assist Rogers to feeling like you have a personal stake in the recovery and salvation of his friend. And why not? If a motley group of similarly damaged people managed to put you back together and shape you into the person you are today (sarcastic and self-deprecating, perhaps a bit pessimistic, but ultimately kind and willing to sacrifice your own safety and well-being for the benefit of others), then Barnes might make the same journey, undergo the same transformation.   

Still, it’s undeniable that he's is going to need more than a few pep talks and a fistful of Tylenol to pull himself together. You certainly had.  

You sigh and stretch, straining your joints almost to the point of pain. Rogers peeks around the broad arch leading into the living room.

“He’s pretty beat,” he says. “I don’t think we should risk the stairs. Maybe he can sleep in here?”

“Sure,” you nod. “I’ll bring the blankets down from the bedroom, along with a clean sweatshirt. His is soaked with blood.”

“Not all of it is his,” Steve adds, scrunching his face and sniffing.

“Stop with the faces, Rogers,” you warn. “Even you need more than a few hours to heal a broken nose.  Probably.”

He smiles again, but it’s a sad, tired expression.  “Can you help me get him up? I don’t think my ribs can take all the weight.”

You return with him to the foyer where Barnes has composed himself. His eyes are glassy and distant, and he still won’t look at you, despite your best efforts to get him to engage in some light banter.

“Okay,” you breathe. “On three.”

You and Steve manage to haul the other man back up, and you end up taking most of the weight to spare Rogers any further injury.  Everyone makes it into the living room, where Barnes immediately sits down in front of the fireplace, fingers digging into the soft Persian rug spread out across the hardwood.

You leave the two men to get comfortable, and retrieve all the blankets and a clean hoodie from upstairs. Barnes is compliant as you get him out of the bloodied clothing, though he does grab your hand and push it away when you linger too long against his bare skin.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, mouth twisting into a frown.  He continues to stare at the stone hearth in front of him, completely unresponsive.  “Barnes?”

With what appears to be great effort, his eyes drift to yours.

“Tell me you’re okay. Or that you’re not okay. But don’t shut us out,” you say, letting your own gaze flick to Steve, who has already taken up a post on the nearest couch. 

“You—" he starts, and it’s almost as if he has to fight to get each word out. “You’re—gonna—get hurt—‘cause—of me.” He inhales sharply and wets his lips.  “HYDRA. They’ll—come.”

You scoot closer to him, letting your shoulders touch. “We can handle them,” you assure him. “No one’s going to take you away again.”

“Listen to the lady, Buck,” Steve says, looking rather wrung out himself. 

You nod but Barnes seems unconvinced. “You both need to rest,” you remind them. “Give your bodies a chance to catch up.”

“You haven’t slept yet,” Rogers objects. “You’ve got to be exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” you lie. “Really.  I promise I’ll take a long nap later.”

“You have a terrible poker face,” Rogers gripes, but reclines on the couch regardless. Once again, he drops off fast.  You figure that’s probably a byproduct of being a soldier. He’d have to be able to grab whatever sleep he could whenever and wherever possible.  Or it could be a serum thing.  Or just a Steve thing. You don’t know him well enough do suss out a definitive explanation.

Barnes shivers against you, so you slowly, tentatively get an arm across his back and murmur soothing words until he stops.

“You’re—good—at—this,” he forces out.

“I’ve had it done for me often enough,” you explain, concerned that his speech faculties seem to be impaired by something.  You hope it’s not a sign of an impending seizure, but it very well may be. 

“S’nice.”

“I imagine you didn’t get much in the way of positive human contact when you were with HYDRA,” you say, raising your hand to curl your fingers through his hair.  “If I do something you don’t like, just say so. I’ll stop.”

“Mmph,” he grunts, shaking his head ‘no.’ He starts to lean back into your touch but pauses, his body going taut.  You check him for telltale tremors, afraid he’s about to have another fit, but he slowly relaxes again.

“Still waiting for the other shoe to drop?” you ask, recalling what he’d said to you the first time you’d entered one of his nightmares. 

 _Then you’ll stop and the pain will come_.

He cringes.

“They—would—punish me,” he says, starting to shiver again. “If—I remembered—things.”

“Is there _anything_ I can do to make this easier for you?” you ask, hating yourself for the way your voice wavers.  Get a grip, woman.

“Just—stay.” He takes a deep breath and glances at you from the corners of his eyes.

“I can do that,” you tell him, scritching along the base of his skull.  His eyes slowly shut and you wonder if you’ve actually gained a tiny bit of his trust.

 

* * *

  

Barnes falls asleep against you, head tilted down on your shoulder. It doesn’t look like a terribly comfortable position, but he’s been out for a few hours now with no outward signs of night terrors or overwhelming pain.  You decide to leave him as he is, switching off the synapses in your lower back as they start to complain.

Steve sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes—which are remarkably no longer black and blue, but a sort of sickly yellow color.

“That was barely a catnap, Rogers,” you whisper to him.

“Says the woman who hasn’t shut her eyes except to blink,” he counters.  “How is he?”

“Out cold,” you answer, still running your fingers through Barnes’ hair.  “We need to talk about what happens next.”

Rogers’ face falls and he hunches over on the edge of the couch.  That, you expect, is something left over from when he was scrawny and sick, before he volunteered to be the U.S. Army’s guinea pig. “I know,” he says.  “I made some calls last night when I went for that walk.  Natasha and Wilson are waiting for me to tell them when, and they’ll be on their way here.  Nat has experience with de-programming and Sam is a counselor at the V.A.  He’s actually kind of pissed that I didn’t call him sooner.”

“Might have been a good idea,” you sigh.  “I feel like all we’ve done here is put a Band-Aid on a broken knee.  To be honest, at this point, anything else I do for him will border on professional negligence. I can't stress this enough; he needs to be in a hospital.”

He looks away, brow furrowed and his right leg bouncing with anxiety. “I can’t let them put him back in a cell,” he finally says.

“Why would you think that’s—No decent doctor or psychologist is going to suggest that.”

“There’s no way we can keep him secreted away forever. Eventually, some pretty big players are going to come looking for him.  The government, S.H.I.E.L.D., _HYDRA_ …”

“Fuck ‘em,” you answer with a shrug. “I assume one of the calls you made was to Stark?”

He nods.

“Well that’s half the battle won right there,” you contend. “Besides, I’m pretty sure if all the information in his file is presented to the right people, in the right framework, there’s no way they could justify throwing him in jail, or prosecuting him.  Fury knows what you’re up to, so I don’t think S.H.I.E.L.D.’s going to come around looking for trouble.”

“Technically, Nick’s dead.  Whoever is running what’s left, it’s not him.”

“I’d bet money I don’t have that he’d be able to pick up the phone and call off the hounds, and that’s if they even bother giving chase,” you argue.

“And HYDRA?” he asks, staring at the floor.

“I don’t speak for all of the X-Men,” you tell him, and his head snaps up at the first use of the team’s name.  “But if HYDRA makes a move, I’ll consider it open season.  You're actively hunting them down, right?”

“Me, Natasha, and Sam, mostly.  Fury’s been providing intel, and I get the feeling he’s not just watching from the shadows. Setting aside everything else that happened, he’s _pissed_ about Pierce, about what was done to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Good.  I’m not looking to add my name to your roster; already on one too many of those, but if you think I can help, drop me a line and I’ll be there,” you tell him, eyes narrowing to slits.

“I gotta ask,” he says after a long pause. “Why are you committing to this? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it more than I can say, but—"  

“This,” you snap, pointing to where Barnes’ head is tucked against your shoulder. “This is _wrong_. It’s evil and despicable and they’ll do it to someone else if they haven’t already.” You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down. “I saw what was in his mind, Steve. I felt it.  Anyone capable of doing that to another human being—for seven decades, no less—needs to be _exterminated_. HYDRA needs to be wiped off the face of the earth.  No quarter. No amnesty. No exceptions.”

“Sound like you're afraid of them,” he says, and you can hear the question in his voice.  _Why?_

“I’m afraid of what a group like HYDRA might attempt if they ever captured or coerced someone like me to their side.  You… You have no idea what some of us can do.  One of my mentors can blast holes through mountains with energy beams _fired_ _from him eyes_.”

Rogers’ stares at you, jaw working spastically.

“That’s—”

“I know,” you cut him off, nodding. “So yes, HYDRA scares the shit out of me.  All they’d have to do is get one high-powered mutant to do their bidding and a lot of people will suffer. Including us.  Can you imagine the backlash? There would be witch-hunts, complete with hangings and burnings-at-the-stake.”

He blows out his cheeks and drops back onto the couch with a groan.

“But even if none of that were a real possibility,” you say, voice dropping back to a whisper as you return your gaze to Barnes.  “They need to pay for what they did to him.  I intend to be there when you collect.”

Rogers doesn’t say anything else for a long time and you decide to leave him to his thoughts.

You turn your own words over in your head, examining your motivations regarding Barnes and HYDRA, your team and their stubborn refusal to get involved in something you can clearly see is a disaster waiting to happen.

It's really not that complicated. Barnes had been one of the good guys, someone who had witnessed the worst humanity had to offer and hadn’t looked away, hadn’t left the task to someone else. He’d followed his friend into darkness, protected him, and when his luck finally ran out, some sick bastard saw his tragedy as an opportunity. Everything James Buchanan Barnes had been, and done, and might have accomplished was burned away, cut out and disposed of, and for seventy years, no one had ever come for him.

 _That’s it_ , you realize with a sickening lurch of your stomach.

Barnes had been left behind, and while you place no blame on Steve or the other Commandos, the truth remains: _No one had ever come.  
_

Not so long ago, you'd found yourself lost in that same darkness, alone and terrified, but unlike Barnes, someone pulled you out, gave you a chance.

You smile at the memory of Dr. MacTaggert showing up at your front door in Edmonton, glasses wobbling on the end of her nose.  She’d been almost impossible to understand those first few days traveling to Muir Island; her Scottish brogue causing you no end of frustration and confusion.  Ana had taken to her immediately, but that was Ana for you.  

You sigh, aware that Rogers is watching you with a mixture of concern and sympathy. You draw Barnes a little closer against you, breath ruffling his hair.

Back then, no one had come, but that isn't what is going to happen this time. Not ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to apologize in advance for any errors. I try to catch as many as possible in Word, but I always end up having to go back a few times after posting to tidy things up.
> 
> I'm going on vacation for about 12 days (destination wedding for friends, yay!) and won't have access to my computer, so I'm trying to get a few more chapters up to tide everyone over until I get back.
> 
> I have 1 more entry planned for this part of the story before we go through the first (smallish) time jump. Or maybe an interlude before that? Hmm. We'll see. :)
> 
> Once again, I want to thank everyone who has commented, bookmarked, left kudos, etc. I love seeing the alerts in my inbox from AO3!!!


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

 "Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."

-Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

* * *

 

Several hours later, Steve politely excuses himself to make another series of phone calls. When you ask if you should expect company, he only manages a slight nod of his head before heading further into the house.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Barnes takes a deep breath and sits up. You’d known he’d been awake for a while now, but figured he had his reasons for keeping up the charade.

“He gonna bring me in?” he asks, readjusting his position until he’s about as far from you as possible without being on the other side of the room. Or out of it completely. You don’t question the action or take it personally. He’d wanted comfort earlier and now he wants space. Both are understandable.

“Not against your will,” you answer, canting your head slightly to the side. “But if you do decide to go, you’ll have access to the best care available.”

“You were doing fine,” he sulks. “I don’t need a padded cell and straitjacket. Just keep me functional—"

“You talk about yourself like you’re a damn machine sometimes, Barnes. I really wish you wouldn’t,” you reprimand, leaning against the cool stone of the fireplace. “Functional is not good enough.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he argues. “It’s just—I’m not… I can get by. If my guts aren’t spilling out and I know I’m _me,_ then that’s okay. It’s enough.”

You snort and flex your bare toes, wondering just how far and how hard you can push without knocking him over the edge. “You’re afraid that you’re going to disappoint them,” you say, watching him carefully. “Steve especially. You're imagining that they’re going to come up with this grand plan for fixing you but you’ll end up being beyond repair. Is that it?”

“Fuck you,” he snaps, forcing himself onto his knees and then, with a bit of a struggle, to his feet. “Like you fuckin’ know me.” His collection of blankets pool around his feet and he kicks them aside to step out of their embrace.

“Oh, I have no illusions about how little I actually know you,” you reply as calmly as possible. “But you wouldn’t be the first to feel that fear and be cowed by it. I’ve been there; I know.”

“No offense, but I don’t see how a teacher from some rich man’s school has any goddamn idea what this,” he gestures to himself, “is like.”

“Everyone has a past, Barnes. Everyone has a before.”

“Thanks, Confucius,” he snarls. “But if we’re measuring dicks here, I’m pretty sure I win.”

“Fair enough,” you chuckle. “What I’m trying to get at is that you don’t need to be afraid of letting any of them down. This isn’t about them. It’s about you. What do _you_ want?”

His face softens as your question catches him off-guard. “I—I don’t know,” he finally admits. “I wasn’t allowed to—” He looks away and wanders toward a row of bookcases that line the wall opposite the fireplace. He stands there, running his flesh hand across the spines of the books neatly arranged on the shelves.

“Stop looking at this like it’s a single problem you need to solve in one go,” you admonish. “When a task is this huge, you have to break it down into manageable portions, otherwise you’ll be overwhelmed and never get anywhere.”

“So what’s the first step?” he asks, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“That’s up to you,” you tell him. “But when I was the one asking that question, the first step was unlearning a lot of bad habits and survival mechanisms, namely my propensity for trying to be whoever other people wanted or expected me to be. Someone once called it 'throwing shapes,' which was strangely accurate now that I think about it. Untangling that mess meant actually figuring out who I was on the inside where it counts."

“What’d you find?”

“That’s a bit personal, Barnes,” you sniff. “Suffice to say, I wanted to be more than what I was; I wanted to matter; I wanted Ana to be proud that I was her sister, and I was profoundly afraid that I could never be any of those things, that there wasn't enough raw material under the mess I'd created to turn me into a whole person. Lucky for me, the right people were there to help me through it and drag me back when I was too chickenshit to stand and fight for what I wanted. I don't know that I would have been able to do any of it on my own.”

He turns back to the bookcase, lost in his own thoughts.

“You don’t have to go,” you remind him. “You’re not a prisoner.”

“What do you think I should do?” he asks, still facing away from you.

“I think you’d have to be a colossal git to pass up the opportunity,” you tell him. “I think this is your best shot at reclaiming as much of yourself as possible.”

“But what if it doesn’t work?” he continues. “What if this is as good as it gets?”

“Then this is where you lay the foundation for whomever you want to be going forward,” you answer. “Despite being a grouchy shit an awful lot of the time, you’re a pretty decent guy, Barnes. Scars and scary metal arm included.”

He laughs, actually _laughs_ , and turns around to face you fully. “I can see why he trusted you so easily,” he says, scratching his chin.

“Who?”

“Steve.” He moves over to one of the long couches and eases himself down, wincing slightly as sore muscles pull in the process. “You probably remind him of her, even if he doesn’t realize it.”

“Enough with the cryptic anecdotes.”

“Peggy,” he smirks. “You remind him of Peggy.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the morning passes without incident. You change into a plain t-shirt and drawstring pants found in one of the other bedrooms, leaving Barnes to wander from room to room as he debates his future with himself. You keep an ear out for anything that sounds out-of-sorts while allowing him some room to breathe. You’re not his babysitter, after all. Well you are, sort of, you just don't need to throw it in his face, is the thing.

Eventually, you end up back in the living room, deciding to grab a book and curl up on one of the couches. For a time, you lose yourself in _Pride and Prejudice;_ the exploits of the Bennet girls a welcome distraction from the absolute silence laying heavy over the house like a shroud.

A knock on the door frame draws your attention away from Austen's narrative, and you look up to see Steve filling the passageway.

"God, you're enormous," you remark, making him blush scarlet.

"Yeah, it still startles me sometimes, too," he laughs. "I was pretty small most of my life."

You close the book and lay it down in your lap. "Everything okay?"

"Sam and Natasha are on their way,” he says. “Just to talk for now, but we want him to come in. To the Tower, that is.”

“He figured as much,” you tell him. “He was up and asking questions a few minutes after you ducked out.”

Rogers plants both his hands on top of his head, looking up at the ceiling. “How’d he take it?”

“I think he’s amenable to the idea,” you supply. “But I get the feeling he’s going to deliberately make the entire process difficult. He wants help, but he doesn’t want to seem like he _needs_ it, if that makes sense. He's going to self-sabotage whenever possible.”

Steve nods and drops his hands back to his sides.

“What’s the plan once you get him there?” you ask.

“Dr. Banner wants to have him checked out. Full medical work-up, a psych evaluation, anything else they can think of. Tony’s practically giddy about inspecting the arm, though I told him that’ll only happen if and when Buck is ready. He’ll have a small apartment to himself on a secure floor, and I’ll be moving into an adjoining one. They asked if you could write up a report of your observations over the last couple of days.”

“Of course,” you nod. “I think I saw a laptop in the study on the second floor. I can put something together that will at least give them a good starting point. Maybe make a few recommendations.”

“Thanks,” he says. “For all of this. Who knows how long it would have taken to find him without your help. Without Ana’s help. Make sure she knows how much I appreciate it.”

“Text her,” you tell him with a sly smirk. “She’ll be the happiest girl in the tri-state area for months.” He offers you his phone so you can program Ana’s number in it. “Am I correct in assuming Stark has some kind of medical facility in his midtown fortress?”

“State-of-the-art,” Steve answers, taking his cell back and tucking it in his pants pocket. “Or so he says. He’s got a team of doctors and specialists on call that he swears by.”

"Which means he's paid them a monstrous amount of money to ensure their discretion," you observe.

“We’ll need it,” he adds. “I don’t want anyone sticking a camera or microphone in Bucky’s face until he’s ready, and only once we’ve got all our ducks lined up in regards to his legal situation.”

“It is nice having friends in high places. Especially when they’re rich,” you comment, throwing in a wink.

“You don’t have to go straight back to Westchester,” he blurts out, running his fingers through his hair. “I know Bucky would—"

“I’m not an Avenger, Steve,” you interrupt. “Or a licensed doctor, or a psychologist, or any of the things he needs right now. Besides, I have responsibilities back home. My kids expect me to be standing at the front of the classroom tomorrow morning to review the critical differences between Linnaean taxonomy and Hennig’s cladistics.”

“So you teach… science?”

“Evolutionary Biology,” you laugh. “And First Aid as an elective."

“Right,” he chuckles. “Anyway, I’ll keep you posted on his progress. If there’s an emergency…”

“I already told you, just call me. Westchester isn’t Hong Kong. I can be downtown in under an hour, and it doesn’t have to be an emergency, Rogers. The rest of my family might not be ready to join the drum circle and make nice, but I’m free to make my own choices about who I socialize with.”

“Deal,” he says, smiling broadly and holding out his hand to shake on it.

 

* * *

 

Not long after, Barnes returns to the living room, looking worn-out as ever. He pushes one of the wingback chairs into the corner and plants himself in it.

“When’re we doing this?” he finally asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Buck, we don’t have to do anything you’re not onboard with. We can hole up here as long as you want. I’ll stay and—"

“Don’t be an idiot,” Barnes interrupts with a shake of his head. “I’m too dangerous to leave in a residential neighborhood with only you to hold the leash. We saw that earlier. If I had gotten out, I could have killed somebody.”

“I think Steve’s just trying to provide some alternative options,” you offer, sitting on the armrest of one of the long sofas. “You have those now; _options_. Choices.”

“Again, that’s stupid. My head’s a train wreck; you can’t trust me to make those kinds of decisions,” he argues, turning to look at Steve. “One day, if I’m something approaching normal, you can give me options. Right now, I need orders.”

You blink, slowly turning your head towards Steve. You’d said something similar to him yesterday at the café, and at the time it had seemed wise. But hearing Barnes say it about himself feels wrong somehow, like you’re about to divest him of what little freedom he’s finally reclaimed.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks quietly, unable to look his friend in the eye.

“Fuck no, Rogers, I’m not sure any of this is even real.”

“Buck…”

“Don’t do that,” he sighs, leaning back in the chair, almost boneless. “I’m trying to be honest with you so you understand why you have to do this for me. Stow the Catholic guilt and do what has to be done.”

“It’s not always gonna be like this,” Steve promises. “However long it takes, it’s gonna get better.”

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good plan,” you tell them both. “You’ll be safe, and they’ll be able to sort out exactly what’s going on and get to work fixing what can be fixed.”

“I take it you’re not coming,” Barnes scowls, staring at his metal arm.

“Not today, no. You’re going to be quite busy for the next few weeks, I expect. Honestly, I’d only be in the way.”

“I don’t know any of them,” he sneers, eyes flicking to your face.

“You don’t know me either,” you point out. “Not any more than a person can know another with little more than twenty-four hours acquaintance. Besides, Steve will be with you every step of the way.”

He snorts and looks away again, clearly agitated.

“Don’t commit yourself to failure before you’ve even started,” you caution. “Look how far you’ve come in a day.”

“Because you were here to pull me out of my own head,” he snaps. “Which of the Avengers can do that if I—if I go away again?”

“None of them,” you concede. “But all they have to do is call me, Barnes. Though, since we’re on the subject, I want to warn you both that I don’t intend to bring my sister back into this unless it’s an absolute emergency. I don’t want her thought of as a magical cure-all.”

“I don’t—" Barnes starts, looking legitimately offended. “I can see why you’d be worried about that, but I don’t think of her, or you, that way. It’s just—”

“I know,” you soothe. “That came out harsher than I intended; I’m sorry. I’ve been told I can be overly protective of her on occasion, but she’s all I’ve got.”

“We understand,” Steve says with a slight incline of his head. “Ana is left out of this unless it’s a life-or-death situation.”

Barnes leans forward over his knees and scrubs his face with both hands. “There’s something else,” he says, forehead cradled in his palms. “I’ve been trying to tell you all day, but I think they put something in my head to keep me from sayin’ it.”

You feel one of your eyebrows creeping up your forehead. “HYDRA programming?” you ask, glancing at Steve. He’s gone as tense as a bowstring, practically vibrating where he stands.

Barnes nods. “I think I can write it down, but I need you both to be ready in case I freak out or something.”

“Maybe we should wait for Natasha and Sam,” Steve suggests, slowly crossing the room to stand within arm’s reach of his friend.

“No,” Barnes insists. “No, I gotta do this now before it slips away again. I don’t always remember.”

Without another word, you trot back to the kitchen and grab a scratch pad and a pen from the junk drawer. You return to the living room and hand both to Barnes. His face has gone a sickly greenish color, like he’s on the verge of throwing up.

“Okay,” he breathes, and starts writing.

 

* * *

 

Barnes manages to get most of his message down on paper before scrambling out of the chair to hurl the remains of last night’s dinner onto the floor. You motion for Steve to stay where he is, waiting as the retching stops.

“Still with us?” you ask.

Barnes nods and slowly sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Cleaning lady’s gonna be pissed,” he slurs.

“Christ, you’ve got a nosebleed,” you swear, pushing away from the couch and grabbing him by the armpits to haul him up to his feet.

“Head hurts again,” he admits, reaching for Steve as the other man comes over and helps get him back into his chair.

“Tilt your chin forward a bit,” you instruct, using the hem of his shirt to wipe away the worst of it. “Steve, can you read what he wrote down?”

Rogers grabs the notepad where Barnes had dropped it. “There’s a shut down system wired into the arm,” he says, voice gone hard. “They can activate it remotely. It’ll kill him and probably anyone standing nearby.”

“Then why haven’t they? He’s been out-of-pocket for months—"

“S.H.I.E.L.D.’s been keeping them busy,” Steve says. “At least that’s what Fury claimed when I spoke to him.”

“Want me back,” Barnes gasps, fresh blood dripping onto the floor between his feet. “Insight failed. M’still useful.”

“I think we might need to move up our timetable on when Stark can get to looking at his arm,” you worry, chewing at your bottom lip. “We can’t assume they’ll wait forever. In fact, they might be spurred to action once they find out we have him.”

“Why do you say that?” Steve asks, tossing the notepad onto the couch with unrestrained disgust.

“Because once they figure out that he’s not going to work for them again, they’ll remove him from the board completely.”

 

* * *

 

Barnes tugs you down to sit on the armrest of his chair and leans his head against your shoulder. Why he finds this particular position so comforting when he’s in distress is a mystery, but it seems to consistently quiet him down so you let your curiosity go for the time being.

When the doorbell rings, he practically hits the ceiling, and it takes another ten minutes of cajoling and reassurances to convince him that everything is okay.

“It’s just Nat and Sam,” Steve says, coming back from the front door. “They’re going to wait outside until you say otherwise.”

Barnes nods and stares out into the foyer, wary and tense.

“These are good people,” you tell him.

“You’ve never met them,” he snaps, then looks up at Steve. “Have I?”

“That’s… complicated,” Rogers admits, rubbing his forehead. “And not important right now. Whatever happened, they’re here to help.”

Barnes looks skeptical but eventually allows Steve to bring them in.

You’ve seen Romanoff on TV before, when she’d sat in front of that insipid Congressional panel and told some of the nation’s most powerful politicians to go fuck themselves. You’re a big fan.

“Hello,” the red-headed woman says, an endearing half-smile balanced on her lips. “I’m Natasha, and this is Sam,” she thumbs behind her at the (very handsome) black man sauntering in. He grins, a beguiling expression with that gap in his teeth, but hangs back in the center of the room.

“Hey,” he says with a casual wave. “Sam Wilson. Been looking for you for a while now, Sergeant Barnes. You’re a hard man to find.”

Bucky says nothing, but you notice the sweat beading on his brow and the way his eyes can’t seem to stick on one thing or person for longer than a few seconds.

“Deep breath,” you murmur, head tilted toward his ear. “You look like you’re about to have a panic attack, Sergeant. Breathe in…” He does, audibly. “Hold it. Hold it. Now breathe out, slowly…”

You repeat the instructions until he looks like he has more control of himself. You pat him gently on the shoulder, and look back at the others. You introduce yourself (first name only, because Barnes is right, you don’t know these people), and then answer a few questions from Natasha.

“So you’re a doctor, sort of,” she says, squinting slightly.

“Close enough for government work,” you throw back. “Fury brought Rogers to a previously arranged meeting to discuss what might be done to aid in the search for Barnes.”

“And what did Fury want with you?” she asks.

“That’s classified,” you answer with a smirk of your own. “I refused his proposal. If he chose not to share the details of it with you, it isn’t my place to do so.”

She nods, pleased with your answer. “What happened out there?” she asks, pointing back over her shoulder to the pile of splintered railing, drywall, and bloodied rags left at the bottom of the staircase. “You guys throw a party or something?”

“Or something,” you answer. “You can ask Steve for the details later.”

She opens her mouth to press for more information, but Wilson (thankfully) cuts her off.

“Well now that we’re done growling at each other and marking our territory,” he drawls, “Ya’ll think I can grab a few minutes with Sergeant Barnes here? I’d like to ask him some questions and I don't think we're ready for group therapy.”

Barnes grabs your arm hard enough to hurt. “Stay.”

You look to Wilson for approval; if he really wants a one-on-one chat with Barnes, you can disentangle yourself easily enough.

“Okay, how about we _ask_ if the lady minds staying?” Wilson suggests, still smiling.

Barnes looks sidelong at you and loosens his iron grip. “Could you?” he asks.

“Of course,” you agree, though you slide your arm back so that his hand is no longer circling your forearm, but instead clutches at your own fingers.

Steve and Natasha leave the room, off to discuss logistics in some other part of the house.

“So how you feelin’ about moving into the Tower?” Wilson asks, and it’s not the line of questioning you were expecting. His tone is friendly, almost casual, and he crouches down a few feet from Bucky, resting his arms on his knees. He looks about as intimidating as a schoolboy, and you know the effect isn’t lost on Barnes.

“Better than slumming it in the old neighborhood,” Barnes answers. “I’m more concerned about security than anything else.”

“No one’s getting inside Tony Stark’s personal residence and place of business uninvited,” Wilson assures him. “No one’s going to be able to get in and make a grab for you.”

“Jesus, you’re as bad as Steve,” Barnes sighs. “I don’t give a shit about HYDRA getting in. I’m worried about me getting _out_. Or getting switched on, laying waste to the building, whatever. You clowns need to have some serious security protocols in place in case I need to be taken down.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Sam says, holding his hands out, that genial smile fading. “No one’s taking anyone down. If you lose it, we’ll be able to handle it. You do know one of your new roommates is The Hulk, right?”

“So, what? You’ll have him pound on me until I stop?” Barnes asks, and there’s no hint of sarcasm in his voice. He’s actually asking if that’s the plan.

“No, man, no. Christ, but they did do a number on you, didn’t they? What I’m saying is that if we can all live and work with a giant green rage monster, I’m pretty sure we can handle a brainwashed ex-assassin with a cybernetic arm.”

Barnes blinks owlishly at Wilson, then leans forward, narrowing his eyes. “Where do I know you from?” he asks.

Sam laughs quietly, looking down at the floor before angling his head back up. “I, uh, kind of kicked you in the back of the head really hard a few months ago,” he explains, rubbing the base of his skull as if experiencing sympathy pains.

Without missing a beat, Barnes asks, “Did I repay you for taking such a cheap shot?”

“You ripped my Exo-7 Falcon rig in half and threw me off a helicarrier. I’d say we’re pretty much even.”

“And the woman, Natasha, did I fight with her too?” he asks, squeezing your fingers to help him stay grounded as he struggles to place the fragmented memories.

“Yeah, she gave you a run for your money, though. That woman knows how to scrap. You shot her in the shoulder, but she got away.”

“Why the fuck would either of you want to help me?” he asks, once again increasing the pressure on your hand. You brush your thumb over his knuckles and he relaxes slightly, eyes darting to yours in silent apology.

“I don’t hold grudges,” Wilson answers with a shrug. “My mom used to say that shit is like cancer; it just festers and makes you sick. As far as Natasha is concerned? I don’t think she’s the vindictive type either, unless she believes it’s tactically advantageous. Besides, Steve’s pretty much her only real friend. If helping you makes him happy, she’s onboard. You can trust her.”

“I don’t,” Barnes snaps. “And I don’t trust you, either.”

Wilson stands up slowly, once again holding out his hands to show he’s not a threat. “That might come with time or it might not. Thankfully, I’m not here to be your friend, Sergeant. You served, same as me, and that makes us brothers. Whatever they did to you, whatever fucked up shit they put in your head, I’m gonna help you get it out,” he says. “If you’ll let me.”

“That’s all you want?” Barnes asks, incredulous. “To help?”

“It’s a serious character flaw, I know,” Wilson deadpans, that brilliant smile creeping back on his face. “But yeah, I do. I mean, it’d be pretty great if I could count Captain America _and_ Bucky Barnes both as friends—I’d never have to beg for a date again—but I’ll be content with a seat at the table if that’s all you’ll ever give me.”

“You people are all insane,” Barnes sighs, slouching over and turning his head to look at you. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re going to need all the allies you can get. Steve tells me that Mr. Wilson works with veterans suffering from PTSD and other combat-related issues as his chosen profession.”

“Correct,” Wilson confirms. “It’s a hell of an honor, too.”

Barnes just snorts, never turning his attention from you.

“You have to give this a chance,” you tell him, squeezing his fingers. “Even if you think it’s stupid or doomed to fail. Give it a chance. That’s all we’re asking for; let us try to prove you wrong.”

He closes his eyes and ducks his head.  “All right,” he finally says. “If that’s what you think, then that’s what I’ll do.”

 

* * *

 

 

“This is going to be messy,” you tell Barnes as Wilson removes himself to update Steve and Natasha about the decision that’s been reached. “And there are going to be more bad days than good for a while. You have to want this, and be willing to fight for it.”

He looks away. You reach forward and hold his chin in your hand, coaxing him back until you can see his eyes. “Promise me you’ll try. You waited seventy years; don’t give up on yourself now that the cavalry's finally come.”

He looks momentarily startled, and covers your hand with his own before drawing it back down to the armrest. For a second, you’re worried he’s going to tell you off, but when he finally speaks, it kindles something in your gut that feels surprisingly like hope.

“Okay,” he says, “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

You drop Barnes off in the kitchen and fix him another bowl of soup. He must be ravenous, because he’s already done with it before you’ve had a chance to rinse the pot you’d warmed the broth up in.

“You need to get into the habit of telling us when you’re hungry,” you tell him, cracking another can of Campbell’s open and switching the stove back on.

“Never had to when—" he hesitates, turning his spoon over in his hand. “—when I was with them. They fed me when it was convenient.”

You hand him another round of vitamins and supplements before passing him the second serving of soup. “That’ll get easier with time, I imagine,” you tell him, once again rinsing the pot and replacing it on the overhead rack. “I have to go upstairs and type some things up for the medical staff at the Tower. Do you want to read it before I hand it off to them?”

“Why would I want to do that?” he asks, eagerly spooning soup into his mouth.

“Because they’re your medical records.”

“Nah,” he says with a shake of his head. “Just don’t sugar-coat anything. They need to know exactly what they’re in for.”

You decide not to press the issue. He really should know what the report says before allowing anyone else access to it, but he also wouldn’t be the first person who didn’t care to know the details of his own illness. As long as he’s absolved you of any ethical concerns by giving you permission to pass the information on, you're mostly satisfied.

“I expect your new housemates will come by in a bit to get you ready to go,” you tell him, folding a dishtowel over the edge of the sink. “Will you be all right on your own until they do?”

“Yeah,” he says, curling his metal fingers in and pulling his arm off the table to rest it on his lap, out of sight. “Gonna see you before I go?”

“This won’t take long,” you tell him, “I type fast.”

 

* * *

 

You’re just printing the last page of the report when Steve calls up the stairs for you. You stack the sheets together and bang a staple in the corner to keep them from being shuffled out of order. The most pertinent information is bulleted on the top page, with a more detailed account afterward. You kept the mutant-oriented stuff out, though you’re sure Steve will have to let some of it slip when the others inevitably get to asking for details. You just hope he chooses what to share wisely, keeping in mind everything you’ve said about safety, and privacy, and _witch-hunts_.

The entire crew—Steve, Natasha, Sam, and Barnes—is waiting in the foyer. Bucky has both hands buried in the front pouch of his zip-up, with the hood drawn as far over his head as possible. He’s hunching and shaking slightly.

“We’ve got a secure vehicle outside,” Natasha informs you. “Sam and Steve will ride with Barnes and the driver to the Tower. I’ve got to drop the Buick off at the lot Steve took it from.”

“You _stole_ a car?” you ask Rogers, stunned.

“It was a S.H.I.E.L.D. lot,” he says with a shrug. “Figured they wouldn’t mind.”

“They would,” Natasha admonishes, twirling the keys around her finger. “But they won’t say anything if I’m the one returning it.”

“But they’d say something to him?” you ask with a short bark of laughter, pointing at Steve.

“No,” she answers. “Probably not. The thing is, people love Steve. They’re afraid of me. Fear lends itself to expediency."

“Oh wow, I so want to be you when I grow up,” you chuckle. “So this is _adieu_ then? At least for now?”

“Seems like,” Wilson nods, holding out his hand. You slide yours into his palm, ready to shake, but he twists your hand over—gently—and then brushes his lips against your knuckles. _“La séparation est un si doux chagrin.”_

You feel your cheeks heat up to about the temperature of the sun. He smirks, winks, and releases you with an exaggerated flourish.

“Does that actually work?” you ask, playfully shoving his shoulder.

“You tell me,” he teases back, feigning injury. Steve clears his throat and both Natasha and Sam take that as their cue to wait outside once more.

“I’ll let you know how things go tonight,” Rogers says, holding up his hand with thumb and pinky extended to the side of his face. “That okay?”

“Yeah, of course. And if _you_ want to talk,” you say, craning your neck in Barnes’ direction, “you can call as well. I can’t guarantee I’ll always be able to answer right away, but I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Barnes just shrugs, leaning against the front door.

“Right,” you sigh. “I’m going to grab my things and then I’ll be on my way. Need me to lock up?”

“No, the security system is automated. We can take care of that once everyone is outside,” Steve tells you.

Before you can process what’s happening, he’s got you wrapped up in his arms, hugging you, talking into your hair as he practically lifts you off your feet. “I can’t thank you enough,” he says, voice breaking. “You ever need anything, you or Ana or anyone else at the school, you just say the word. I owe you.”

“No debts,” you chide as he puts you back down. “I’m not a bloody loan shark.”

Barnes huffs and knocks his head against the doorframe.

“Think you could step away for just a minute?” you ask Steve, straightening your t-shirt where it had begun to ride up your torso.

“Sure,” he answers, taking several steps back into the foyer and pretending to be very interested in one of the oil paintings hanging in the hallway.

“Barnes…” you start, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He jerks away from you, eyes hard and red-rimmed.

“You should be coming with us,” he says. “You’re my doctor.”

“Except that I’m not a doctor—"

“You’re _my_ doctor,” he insists. “Please… Don’t I get to have a say in this?”

“Don’t I?” you counter. “I want you to get better, and you need help that I’m not qualified to provide. You're not my patient anymore, so what we are to each other going forward is going to have to change.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, tracing the ornate moulding around the front door with his metal hand.

“We could try being friends,” you suggest. “You’re going to need those as much as you’ll need a good doctor.”

“You—you’ll come and visit, right?”

“That’s generally something friends do,” you tell him, trying to leech some of the hurt out of the conversation. “As soon as your doctors say you’re ready for visitors, I’ll come down and catch up with you. You can complain about your medical team, tell me how annoying Stark is, whatever else you want to talk about. We’ll have a couple beers and, I don’t know, watch the telly.”

“Promise,” he says. _Says_ , not asks.

“I swear,” you tell him. “Cross my heart.”

 

* * *

 

You make sure Steve understands that the medical file needs to be given to whomever is selected to be Barnes’ chief physician. How the information is then disseminated will be his or her call; no one else’s.

“I’ll talk to Tony about the kill switch Bucky told us about,” Rogers adds. “Hopefully he’ll know what to do.”

“He will,” you assure him. “If he’s half as smart as he claims, he’ll figure it out.”

After that, you say your final farewells and head out the back. Your bike is still tucked away behind the hedges, precisely where you left it. After wiping it clean of leaves and dirt, you walk it out to the front of the house, settling yourself onto the seat.

Natasha and the ugly little Buick are already gone, though the black-on-black SUV that will take Barnes to Avengers Tower is still idling in front of the house. You wave at the tinted windows before turning the motorcycle's engine over. The SUV pulls away, heading toward Midtown, while you navigate back toward Jewel Avenue, then merge onto the highway. You follow that for a while before pulling off onto the Taconic State Parkway, where the last traces of the city finally fade into deep, dark woods, and rolling green lawns bordered with wrought-iron fences, and European-style estates tucked away from the roads. 

After almost a half hour of zipping along the winding, scenic route, you pull through the gates of Xavier’s. You slow to a crawl, then slide off of the bike entirely, walking it the final stretch to the garage where the preferred vehicles of the other staff members are kept.

Ana is waiting for you, swatting at the mosquitoes drawn to the bright lights of the building. She’s bouncing on her feet, clutching her cell phone in her hands. “He _texted_ me!” she gushes, rushing out to you before you can get the bike (or yourself) inside.

“Who texted you?” you ask, feigning ignorance.

“Oh don’t be daft,” she scowls. “Captain America! He texted me and said I'm a hero! This is, like, the best day ever. He even sent me a picture!”

She turns the phone so you can see. Steve has, in fact, sent her a selfie (you weren’t aware grandpas did things like that, so color you surprised). He’s saluting and trying to look stoic, but you can see the laughter in his eyes.

“God, he’s such a nerd,” you groan, handing the phone back.

“You can’t say things like that!” Ana says, affronted. “He’s a _national treasure_.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake. Back inside!” you order with a laugh, shooing her toward the door that connects to the main house. “You have to be up early tomorrow for class.”

Ana runs ahead of you, clutching her phone to her chest as if it were a puppy.

“Should not have suggested texting,” you moan to yourself, shuffling in after your sister. “There’ll be no living with her now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That was a doozy to write. I had a lot of ground I wanted to cover before (finally) moving this along to the next stage of the story.
> 
> I've decided there *will* be an interlude, maybe more than one if this goes over well--so if you guys hate it, let me know. They'll likely all be from Barnes' perspective (mostly? maybe?) so this isn't a complete 2nd person POV slog. Also, whether or not they're successful, blame bluebird88. All her fault. Her and her EVIL playlist suggestions. ;)
> 
> Once again, thank you for the kind words and encouragement. I appreciate it all :)


	9. Interlude in E Minor: Mercury

* * *

Yet I know, if I stepped aside,  
released the controls, you would open my eyes.  
That somehow, all of this mess  
is just an attempt to know the worth of my life…

I’ll go anywhere you want me.

* * *

 

That first night, he dreams.

The sky is dark over Brooklyn but he can’t see any stars.

The streets seem foreign, wrong somehow. He knows he lived here once, called it home, walked his Ma and his sisters to church, snuck out with the Rogers boy searching for fun and finding trouble, knows that he necked with an older girl—Iris? Iris.—behind the Paramount Theater on DeKalb and refused to tell anyone about it because he was a gentleman, and anyway just thinking about it made him blush and stutter something awful.

The rain slants down like it’s aiming for him, and a chill creeps up his spine, hinting at other memories of cold, and agony, and forgetting. He hunches further into his jacket, wishing he had a hat or an umbrella, something, _anything_ to keep the goddamn rain outta his eyes.

It’s dark and getting darker, but the streetlights standing crooked along the avenue wink out, one after another, and the wind howls like a demon, like something on the hunt, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s the one it’s searching for.

He tries to walk faster, but the screaming in his head makes it hard, makes it seem like there’s cement in his shoes, glue in his veins. He tries to raise his arm to shield his eyes, but only finds a bloody stump, ragged at the ends with torn flesh and splintered bone.  _It left blood in the snow_ , he thinks, and he wonders if Steve will use the trail to track him, all the way to the end of the line, wherever that is. He cradles the ruined arm against his chest, calling out for someone in one of the houses to come out and help him, anyone, _anyone_ , because he’s scared and the pain is starting to roll over him in waves so intense he thinks he’s gonna lose it right here on the sidewalk, just fall down and scream for his Ma, for Jesus, the Devil, anyone who can make it stop.

But no one comes. No lights flicker on, no curious faces peek out behind the moldy, rotting curtains. No one _ever_ comes.

The thunder crashes down like the world is ending, and he remembers being six years old, huddled under the covers with Stevie, both of them staring at each other wide-eyed, trying not to jump when the next sharp crack of thunder rattled the windowpane, each accusing the other of being a lily-livered scaredy cat crybaby coward, and somehow that made it less frightening, made it more like a game, like an adventure. 

He crosses to the next block, shoes and socks and pants soaked as the sewers back up, the gutters flooded with the deluge that shows no signs of weakening. He sputters, tries to keep his hair out of his eyes (when did it get so long?), and stumbles up onto the sidewalk again, shivering so hard he almost bites through his own tongue. He starts trying doors, clambering up the stoops and banging on them, begging for someone inside to please open up, just let him drip-dry in the front room until the storm lets up, _please,_ he’s drowning out here, and his arm is really bad and bleeding, _and why won’t you open the goddamn door?_

He tries ten doors, a hundred, before collapsing and drawing his legs up to his chest, hiding his head between his knees and struggling not to look at the ruin of his arm, trying not to think about how he’ll bleed to death long before the water sweeps up and over his head.

He’s lost, and he’s done horrible, terrible, unspeakable things, so why should anyone come? Who would want him now? Broken and vicious, the pieces left behind barely held together in the shape of something human.

 _I found him!_ A young girl’s voice zips through the air, and his head jerks up, his heart leaps in his chest. Someone is out there, someone is looking. 

 _I found him! I found him!_ she singsongs, and he swears the rain lets up a little bit, just enough for him to see the hazy outline of the opposite side of the street. Had it really been so close? He’d begun to think it might not exist, that Brooklyn was a town of one-sided boulevards, all of them fading into nothingness. He strains to hear the voice again, pushes himself back onto his feet, leans on the brick wall behind him like a drunk. He tries to call out, to tell her that he’s here, right here, but his words turn to ashes, to dust, in his mouth and all he can do is make noises like some kind of animal.

The storm grows, swells to hurricane proportions, almost biblical in scale as it threatens to sink the world beneath waves of dirty brown water. Something on the next block catches his attention and he squints through the downpour to see a single streetlight flare to life, sizzling and crackling. Someone stands inside that pool of radiance and he knows, _knows_ , he has to get to her.

She sees him, he can tell by the way her silhouette straightens, the way she turns toward him.

 _Please_ , he thinks. _Please._

She runs, and he swears the shallow rivers of water part for her, boil away like she’s made of fire, of the Sun, of the chemical reactions that give birth to entire galaxies. She reaches for him and he reaches back, but with the wrong arm, an arm of metal with a red star like a target on his shoulder and he screams. She takes the hand anyway, drags him to her and away from the crumbling building he’d been leaning against. He’s whimpering and trying to pull away, to hide the horror of the machine (don’t let her see), to hide the horror of what he is. She’ll leave him in the rain and the dark if she knows.

She turns back and smiles and tightens her grip.  _I know_ , that smile says. _I know and it’s okay._ She slips her hand in his, her fingers warm against the metal, seeping through and making him feel light, and alive, like he could maybe be a person again one day.

She starts running once more, and his legs finally obey him, he matches her stride-for-stride, though she’s quick and agile as a deer. He watches her feet, bare and clean despite the filthy water, and soon they’re pressing through mud, then grass and stone, and he looks up and Brooklyn is gone. She leads him up a rain-slick hill, and while he slips and scrambles on hands and knees to keep up, she races ahead, nimble as a mountain goat. By the time he reaches the top, she’s leaping down the opposite slope, urging him to follow.

 _Stay with me!_  her voice in his head says, and he can hear the laughter in it, like everything is going to be okay, like the rain and the many-headed monster he can always feel hounding him are only worthy of her mockery, her contempt, her brash defiance. She dashes out into the field at the bottom of the hill, stilt-legged white birds erupting out of the grass around her, wings beating against the air with frantic abandon. She turns, cheeks red with exertion, and smiles again.

He slides, trips, tumbles down the hill, panting into the dirt before she’s crouched in front of him, brushing his too-long hair from his eyes.

The rain has finally stopped, though the clouds still roil and threaten, waiting for an opening, for an opportunity, and then they’ll vent their fury again and—

Her hand presses against his cheek, slides down to cradle his jaw.  _Up_ , she tells him. _We have to keep going._ _We’re almost there_.

He nods, pushes himself up, and she’s off running, her laughter rippling through the air like a tangible thing.

He follows after her, sprinting through the long grass, feeling it drag along his face, the smell of green and growing things in his nose, his mouth, his throat and he wonders, for a moment, if he’s ever smelled anything so good.

She’s flying ahead of him and he can’t believe how fast she is, but those long legs never seem to grow tired, and it’s as though the earth bends to cradle her each time she touches back down, like she’s an old friend, like she _belongs_ here in a way he’s never felt he belonged anywhere.

Trees rise up around him that reach into the dark sky forever, their tops lost in the clouds. He can hear insects singing, the rustle and buzz of living things, and he spares a thought for all the secret lives that come and go, are born and die, deep in these woods where no one is watching.

She touches the trunks like she knows each one, dancing around them like a wood nymph, like she’s one of the fey, same as the ones Mrs. Rogers used to tell stories about, ethereal and mischievous, and leading him to safety.

He rests against one of the trees, sucking in air, dizzy and half-delirious. She waits nearby, her skin covered in opalescent shells— _no—_ scales _,_ though she’s bare everywhere that wouldn’t be considered sinful, and how did he not notice until now?

“Who—?” he asks, startled by his own voice, but she just shakes her head and presses a finger against his bloodied mouth.

 _Not here_ , she tells him without moving her lips. _It isn’t safe._

She takes his hand again, and walks with him, curling her arm around his and running her fingers up and down the interlocking plates as if she admires them, as if they aren’t the outward sign of just how little is left of the man he was, before he fell, before they stole him and he was left behind. Before they made him into a weapon. The fist of HYDRA.

She pulls his arm closer to her, rests her head against his shoulder as they walk, and she points ahead of them.

 _There_ , she says, and he can see the clearing where the trees dwindle and the soft carpet of pine needles and loamy soil give way to stone. A cliff, reaching out into nothing, into darkness, and he pulls back, plants his feet.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

 _You can_ , she assures him before breaking away, charging at the outcrop and leaping into the void with a wild, reckless joy that he envies and hates simultaneously.

But in the end, he follows. He’ll always follow where she leads.

He pushes off, away, out, and pinwheels his arms as if that’s going to help somehow, like he can fly, but he just drops like a stone, down, down. His feet break the surface first, and he plunges into the water, bracing for ice, and freezing, but finding a gentle heat that soothes instead.

He opens his eyes and sees her floating in front of him. She points down and kicks, swimming away from him and he thinks _N_ _o_ , _that’s the wrong way!_ and tries to grab her, but she slips from his fingers, sleek as a sea lion and just as quick.

So he does the only thing he really can, and follows her.

His lungs burn, he has to fight the urge to inhale, but he can still see her, practically glowing, florescent, in the blue-black depths.

Suddenly, up and down switch, and he feels himself buoyed, lifted, rocketing to the surface on he other side. When he breaks out into open air he gasps, coughs, gulps down precious oxygen until his chest aches.

She’s there, bobbing gently and slicing through the water towards him. She gets her arm over his shoulder, across his chest, and digs her hand into his armpit. She pulls and he feels his back press against her chest, can feel the outline of her scales and her hips and her breasts, can feel the strength in her arms and her legs and again wonders, _Who is this woman?_

She tows him to shore, his head pressed against hers, trying to see her from the corners of his eyes. Once they can stand she helps him right himself and then they both walk the rest of the way. Her hand finds his again, and she threads her fingers between his, squeezing gently every now-and-then.

Finally, they both collapse on the sand. She’s breathing hard, and he’s surprised to see something so human from someone who seems to defy every limitation a human is supposed to have. He reaches over and with his flesh hand traces some of the scales that pebble her skin, rows of them forming a pattern that speaks of secrets and power, a gift that reaches back through the centuries.

“What are you?” he asks, and her eyes drift over to his with a kind of lazy self-satisfaction he thought only cats and the French capable of.

“That’s complicated,” she says, and he thrills to hear her voice, to really hear it.

He opens his mouth to ask another question but she just shakes her head and points up to the sky. He follows the graceful line of her arm until a wide swath of brilliant stars fills his field of vision.

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” she asks.

He looks back at her, folds both his hands on his chest and thinks,  _Ye_ _s._

“You’re safe now, Barnes,” she tells him, still staring at the heavens with a kind of soul-deep awe he can hardly imagine being the subject of (but maybe, one day, someone— _she?—_ might look at him that way).

“Stay with me,” he whispers back, turning his head so he can join her in her reverence of the night sky.

“Always,” she promises, and he believes her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics: "Mercury," by Sleeping At Last
> 
> Credit to bluebird88 for the playlist suggestions, blame her for any extraneous feels.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts on the interlude; if you think it works, or doesn't, etc., so I can better decide if I want to do more as the story progresses. 
> 
> I'm off on vacation tomorrow, so no new chapters for a while, sorry!


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

 

 _“He’s getting worse_ , _”_ Steve texts you. It’s been four days since your adventure in the city and almost none of Rogers’ updates have been good.  _“Three of Stark’s doctors have quit already_. _”_

“Why?” you text back, leaving your phone where you can see it next to the stack of term papers you’re determined to finish grading before the week is out.

_“He scares them.  He either refuses to speak or threatens them with violence.”_

You sigh, tapping your pen against the surface of your desk. “You have to give him time, Steve. He has to give himself time.  This isn’t going to be solved in a week.”

 _“I know_ , _”_ he answers immediately. _“But it’s like he’s checked out. He locks himself in his room. I have to practically break the door down and drag him to his appointments_. _”_

You pinch the bridge of your nose and toss your pen clear across the room.

 _“Y_ _ou should hear the things he says_ , _”_ Steve continues. _“The Bucky Barnes I knew would never talk like that_. _”_

“He’s not the Barnes you knew,” you remind him. "He’s not sure who he is anymore. That won’t be an easy thing to figure out, not after what they did to him.”

 _"I know that_ , _"_  he responds. _"I'_ _m afraid he’s going to bolt the first chance he gets.”_

“He might.  I did, when I first moved to the U.S. to dorm at Xavier’s.”

_“What about Ana?”_

“She wasn’t like me. Still isn’t.  She barely remembers our lives before Dr. MacTaggert or Professor Xavier, before the school.  I thought she’d be better off without me around to screw it up.”

_“But you went back for her.”_

“No. I went back because I had nowhere else to go. Also, Logan can be very persuasive when he’s spent the better part of his weekend tracking you down,” you explain.  “Anyway, has Tony’s team learned anything we didn’t already know about Barnes?”

 _“The arm is damaged internally, though he won’t let Stark get close enough to do a full scan.  We know it has to be worked on, maybe removed and refitted, but if anyone so much as mentions it, he starts yelling in Russian and we have to get Nat to talk him down_.”

“Is he eating?”

 _“Not enough_ ,” Steve texts. _“Banner has him on a 6,000 calorie per day nutritional plan, with a dietitian to monitor his intake, but mostly he pushes everything around on his plate. What he does eat, he usually throws up_. _”_

“Did Banner read my report? I noted the likelihood of a compromised or damaged digestive system. He needs probiotics, easily digested foods, and probably something to help break down all that scar tissue.”

 _“He did read it_ , _”_ he answers. _“He’s wasn't the primary doctor at first, not really his field, but he's one of the few people up here who Bucky hasn't lashed out at. Kind of fell into it by process of elimination.  He has Bucky on a ton of pills and he hates all of them_. _”_

“As long as he takes them, I don’t care how cranky he gets,” you text back.  “But seriously Steve, it’s only been a few days. Let him settle in, get used to the routine.  Don’t let this shake you. Or him.”

 _“Copy that,”_ he responds.  _“I asked if he wanted to talk to you. He stormed off and slammed his door_. _”_

“When was this?”

 _“Just now,”_ he says. _“He was in here, trying to read over my shoulder.”_

“Keep me posted,” you finish. “I’ve got to get through these papers or I’ll be dealing with them into the weekend.”

 _“Okay,”_ he says. _“Thanks for listening. Texting. Whichever terminology is correct.”_

“Any time, Rogers."

You flip your cell phone over and focus on the stack of papers spread out on the desk. After a few seconds rummaging in one of the drawers for another pen, you get back to the task-at-hand, making notations along the margins regarding sentence structure and how to properly frame a hypothesis.

You’re only a few minutes in when a set of hairy knuckles rap against the frame of the doorway leading into your classroom.

“What?” you ask, not bothering to look up from your work.

“Team meeting,” Logan growls around an unlit stogie. “Your presence is required, Duchess.”

“Don’t call me that,” you sneer, circling an entire paragraph and questioning it’s germaneness to the paper’s established topic. “You’ve got more blue blood flowing through your veins than anyone in my family ever did.”

He snorts, and pops the cigar out of his mouth. He’s chewed the end to tatters and you know he’ll be picking out bits of tobacco from his teeth for the rest of the night.

“Yeah, but I don’t have the fancy accent,” he says, smirking at you from the threshold.

“What’s the meeting about?” you ask, refusing to let him bait you into another argument about pedigrees or which of you had the more fucked up childhood.

“Like you gotta ask,” he says, turning the cigar over in his hand. “Scott’s pissed.”

“Because I got involved in Avenger’s business?” you ask.

“Because you got Ana involved in Avengers business.”

 _Shit_.

“She’s fine,” you note, finally settling back in your chair and abandoning your apparently doomed attempt to get ahead of your workload.

“I know,” he says, slotting the end of the stogie between his teeth once more. “You’re her guardian, not me, or Summers, or Chuck. What you and your family get up to is your business.”

“Then why the meeting?”

He shrugs, “Scott’s pissed.”

You roll your eyes and push away from the desk, resigned to your fate. 

“C’mon, Duchess. Let’s get this over with,” Logan drawls, heading down the hallway toward the Professor’s office.

 

* * *

 

“How could you be so irresponsible?” Scott fumes, stalking in front of the lead-lined windows set into the wall behind Charles’ desk, where the man himself is sitting, allowing the others to speak before adding his own opinion into the mix.  The entire team hasn’t been assembled, thank God, just whomever happened to be on campus when the call went out, that being Scott, Jean, Hank, and Logan.

And the Professor, of course, but that usually goes without saying.

“Because I wasn’t being irresponsible,” you snap. “If you think I would ever willfully put Ana in danger—”

“You did put her in danger,” he argues, looking to Jean for support.  Instead, she sighs and looks away.  “Am I the only one who sees how obviously stupid this entire fiasco was?”

“The Winter Soldier isn’t exactly someone a teenager should be poking at with a stick,” Dr. McCoy observes.  

“It was risky,” Jean agrees. “And speaking as someone who has worked closely with your sister as she's developed her gifts, I would have never allowed her to get involved.  Not only could he have hurt her, she could have easily hurt _him_. Or you. Perhaps especially you, considering what you two did.”

“I made a call,” you defend. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see—”

“He’s not our problem,” Scott seethes. “What happened to him is horrible and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, but we have enough to worry about—”

“That’s all we ever seem to do anymore. Sit and worry. Worry and sit.”

“So your solution is to go looking for a fight? Do you have any idea how much of our own blood we had to spill to find a little peace? A little solitude?”

“Excuse me while I go fetch my smallest violin, Summers,” you growl. “If I wanted peace and solitude, I’d move to a deserted island, like Lensherr did.”

“I’d hardly call Genosha deserted,” Jean sighs. “Regardless, you should have told someone what you were planning. I can understand not telling Scott—”

“Excuse me?”

“—But if something had gone wrong, it would have been wise to have one of us standing by to help Ana regain control,” she finishes, shooting Scott a disapproving look for interrupting her.

“I agree with Jean,” Charles says, calmly steepling his fingers together in front of him. “I appreciate the bond that you and your sister share—you trust her, perhaps more than you’ll ever trust anyone else—but she’s a minor, and she would do anything you asked, even if she had her own reservations or fears about your request. You need to understand the influence you have over her.”

“I do,” you admit, ducking your head deferentially to him. “And you’re right. I should have told someone what was happening. That was poor judgment on my part. It’s just… things moved rather quickly after we found Sergeant Barnes in Brooklyn.  If you could have seen—”

“I believe you,” he nods. “We don’t have much information about HYDRA, but what we do know is cause enough for concern. History has shown that there is very little they aren't willing to do in pursuit of their goals. That makes them exceedingly dangerous.”

“Nazis,” Logan mutters, staring out one of the windows at the long stretch of verdant lawn leading towards the woods.  “Of every enemy I fought in every war they dragged me into, it was the Nazis I hated most.”

“Yes, I think we can all agree that HYDRA is bad,” Scott snarks. “But that doesn’t make what she did—”

“She already apologized, Boy Scout,” Logan snaps, ripping the stogie from his mouth, jabbing the air with it as if punctuating his words. “What the fuck else you want? Pound of flesh? Firstborn son?”

Summers pauses, jaw clamping shut and his right fist curling into a club.  He looks like he’s actually considering throwing a punch before Jean clears her throat and he’s called back to reality.

“Scott,” you start, dropping your hands to your sides in defeat. “I made a mistake. But I would never deliberately put Ana in danger. Please tell me you know that.”

He huffs and plants his hands on his hips, glancing to Jean before looking back at you. “I know,” he finally admits. “I just—You’re both so young.  The world isn't all sunshine and rainbows, but I was hoping that you two wouldn’t have to see how ugly it really is for a while longer.”

You look down at your feet, shaking your head slightly. “You know what happened in Edmonton, before Dr. MacTaggert showed up,” you remind him. “I was already well acquainted with how unfair and unjust the world can be.”

Scott blows out his breath and heads for the door, pausing next to you for a moment.  He puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently. “Don’t do it again,” he says, mouth twisting into a half-smile. “Or I’ll ground you for a month.”

“Yes, Dad,” you deadpan, chuckling softly as he sees himself out of the office.

“I’m going to talk to Ana,” Jean tells you, following Scott. “I want to make sure she’s okay.  Has she talked to you about anything she might have seen?”

“She told me she didn’t look,” you supply.  “Just figured out where he was and got me inside his head when things went pear-shaped.”

“Understood,” she says, stepping out of the office, hands clasped loosely behind her back.

“I’m curious,” McCoy starts, turning in his chair. “What is your professional opinion of Sergeant Barnes?”

“He’s a mess,” you reply with a slight shrug. “If he’s ever able to live independently it’ll be a small miracle.  From what I saw in the file Romanoff procured for Rogers, he’s lucky to be forming coherent sentences.”

“He’s augmented, like Captain Rogers,” Hank states, brushing some imaginary dust or fuzz from the cobalt fur of his arms.

“A knock-off serum cobbled together by a scientist named Arnim Zola.  HYDRA killed dozens of POWs at a factory near Klagenfurt, Austria, before getting to Barnes. They made the prisoners work on weapons production and other tech, and when their bodies finally gave out, they’d send them to some kind of isolation ward.  Zola would inject them with whatever combination of drugs and chemicals he was working on and document the results.  As far as the records show, Barnes was the only one to survive.”

“Stars and garters,” Hank mutters, delicately plucking his glasses from the bridge of his nose and polishing them with his shirt.  “That poor boy.”

“It gets so much worse,” you tell him. “You have no idea.”

“I’d like to meet with him,” he says. “When he’s ready, of course. I understand from Charles that both Barnes and Rogers have been briefed about who and what we are. Am I wrong to assume that my appearance wouldn’t be too disconcerting?”

“I’m not sure how much of that information Barnes was able to process,” you caution. “He was fairly well out of it, and Rogers has since reported that he’s deteriorated further while at the Tower. I can always ask if he minds having another doctor from the school consult on his case, though.”

“I would appreciate that,” Hank says, smiling and rising from his seat. “And not just because I’m intensely curious about what’s been done to him.  I do hope that I can help him in some way.”

You're grateful enough that you could hug him, but you know he'll just end up flustered and sputtering, so instead you return his smile and tell him you’ll make the suggestion the next time you speak to Barnes.

“Well,” he says, clapping his hands together. “I should probably get back to the lab.” He sidles out of the room—an impressive feat for someone so large—and you’re left in the office with the Professor and Logan.

“This ain’t gonna end well,” Logan says, still staring out the window.

“God, you sound like Barnes,” you groan, slumping into the nearest chair. “Always so negative.”

“Just sayin’.  Someone like that… there’s no putting it all back together.  His story doesn’t get a happy ending.”

“You think he’s a lost cause?” Charles asks, turning slightly to face the surly Canadian.

“Yup. And I think she’s a sucker for lost causes,” he says, pointing at you with his cigar.

“Like this is an established pattern of behavior or something,” you scowl. “What other lost causes have I attached myself to?”

He just stares back at you, one brow arching almost comically in a severe angle that distorts his whole face.

“What, _you?”_

He shrugs, popping the stogie back in his mouth.

“Oh for pity’s sake, shall I fetch that tiny violin after all?”

He flips you the bird and heads out of the room, probably to go smoke that sodding cigar within the safety of the boathouse or the woods.

“He cares a great deal for you and Ana,” Charles lightly chides. “You in particular.  And his concern isn’t entirely unwarranted.”

“I promise I’ll be careful not to over-commit,” you reassure him.  “And Ana stays out of it unless I discuss it with you and Jean first.”

“When do you think you’ll see them again?”

“Rogers and Barnes? Whenever the medical team clears him for visitors, I suppose.  He’ll have to want me to come, of course. I won’t impose where I’m not welcome—”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be an issue,” Charles says, eyes creasing at the corners.

“Don’t know what you’re implying,” you sniff, turning to the door.

“Youth,” the Professor says to your back, “is wasted on the young.”  He laughs to himself as you shut the door behind you, biting back a retort about old people and their desperately needing hobbies.

 

* * *

 

You briefly return to your classroom to gather up your things (term papers included) and then retreat to the suite you share with Ana in the upstairs residential wing.  A few of the students call to you as you pass by, and you answer with a wave or a nod of your head. 

Finally, blessedly, you reach your room and quickly shut the door behind you, throwing the bolt against any overly-excited students rushing in to ask you a question, or looking for Ana.  During the day, when you’re not teaching or training, you leave it open, allowing the kids to drift in and out as they please, sometimes with questions, concerns, or idle conversation; sometimes just to sit quietly with someone else, sharing space.

With an exaggerated sigh, you flop down onto your bed, dropping the stack of essays to the side.  You’ll get to them later. Probably. Maybe.

You drag your cellphone out of your pants pocket, checking for any texts or missed messages.  There are a few from Steve regarding Barnes, who apparently emerged from his room not long after locking himself inside, immediately demanding to know what you two had been talking about.

“What’d you tell him?” you text Rogers.

_“The truth.”_

“How’d he take it?” you ask.

 _“Said if you had any questions about his progress, you should ask him,”_ he answers.

“Then he should get on the goddamn phone. I have plenty of questions.”

A moment later, your phone vibrates softly, the screen lighting up with the goofy selfie Rogers had sent Ana a few days ago. You’d set it as his contact picture after swiping Ana’s cell and sending the picture to yourself.

“Hello?” you chirp, stretching back against the bed far enough that your head tips over the edge.

“Your voice sounds weird,” Barnes grumbles. “I hate these things.”

“What, cell phones?”

He grunts and you hear a door close in the background. “Five minutes,” he says. “Then I’m hanging up.”

“You told Steve you wanted to talk to me,” you remind him.

“I—I do. Just ask whatever you want to ask,” he stammers.

“How’re you doing?”

“Shitty,” he answers immediately.  “Feels like… like I’m gonna crawl right out of my own skin.”

“Rogers tells me you’re not eating. Or cooperating with your medical team—”

“They’re not my medical team—” he interrupts, but you plow right on ahead, because the man said _five minutes_ and you’ve no doubt he means exactly that long and not a second longer.

“—or allowing Stark to check out your arm. You remember what you told us about it, right?”

“I can’t help it,” he sighs. “He’s sitting there, with that goddamn music blasting, and his stupid t-shirts, and he won’t shut the fuck up, and just keeps poking at me like I’m a robot, like I’m one of his cars.  He won’t even look at me, and he talks to Steve the whole time like I’m not even there.”

“Does it hurt?”

“I ain’t that fragile,” he gripes. “I’m not about to let the spawn of Howard Stark shred my precious feelings.”

“Not that,” you huff. “The arm. Does it hurt when he’s inspecting it?”

“Of course it hurts,” he says.

“Have you told him that?” you continue, already sure of the answer.

 Silence, and then: “Can’t. Want to, but can’t.”

“Why?”

“Nggh,” he groans. “Conditioning. No speaking when the techs are—are doing work. Repairs. Upgrades. Have to be quiet and still.”

“Take a deep breath,” you tell him, the strain in his voice reminding you of how he’d wind himself up tight as a drum while beginning to hyperventilate.

“You should be here,” he finally says, though the words still seem hard to get out and he’s breathing harder than a man having a conversation ought to be.

“You need to try to trust people other than just myself and Steve,” you tell him.

“Natalia—Natasha—isn’t bad.  She has the good vodka, the real stuff. And Wilson is tolerable. Talks a little too much. Always with—with the jokes.”

“I told you I’d come to visit when you’d made enough progress with your doctors,” you remind him, once again picking up on his fluctuating struggle with words.  “You’re not holding up your end of the bargain.”

Another long pause.

“Sorry,” he finally exhales. “I—I forget, sometimes, and I’m back with _them_ , and you and Steve being in Brooklyn, finding me, it’s like a half-remembered dream. Too good to be true. I don’t mean to forget,” he admits, clearly frustrated.

“I know; no one is angry with you because you’re struggling. We talked about how this was going to be messy, about how the bad days would outnumber the good by a significant margin, remember?”

“Yeah,” he says.  “I know, I do. Really. I just think this would be easier if you were here to remind me.  I hear you better than Steve most times.”

“Not talking any louder or saying anything different,” you counter, a bit confused by that last confession.

“Not what I mean,” he grumbles, and you hear another door shut.

“Where are you?” you ask, sitting up on the bed.

“Closet,” he tells you. “It’s dark and small.  Feels familiar, safe. How fucked up is that?”

“Pretty fucked up,” you agree, brow furrowed with concern. “Why would—”

“You know why,” he says, voice dropping to something just above a whisper.  “They didn’t put me up in a five star hotel for seventy years.”

“Barnes…”

“You gotta come to the Tower,” he says. “I know I’ll be better if you’re here.”

 “The earliest I can come down is this weekend,” you tell him. “And I still want Dr. Banner’s approval before I pack a bag.”

“This weekend?” he asks. “Tomorrow is Friday. You could come down tomorrow night.”

“Saturday morning,” you correct. “A lot of the students go home on the weekend and staff is needed to help greet parents, arrange taxis, drop the kids off at Amtrak, and so on.  All hands on deck, as it were.”

“When will you talk to Banner?” he asks.

“Tomorrow afternoon, and I will abide by his decision.  No arguments.”

“No arguments,” he concedes. “Can you text Steve after you know what you’re doing?”

“Do you have a phone of your own?”

“I broke it,” he says.  “Grabbed for it with the wrong hand.”

“I can text Steve,” you tell him.  “I’ll tell him to buy you a burner.”

“A what?”

“A _burner_. A cheap mobile with basic features that is made to be used and discarded.”

“Your generation,” he grouses, “doesn’t make anything to last.”

“Oh my God, don’t start,” you groan. “Any more appointments for today?”

“No,” he says. “Steve will try to get me to come out and watch a movie or something. Probably as soon as I get off the phone with you.”

“What’ve you been watching lately?”

“He keeps putting on cartoons,” he sighs. “They used to show a few before the movie, and those were only five minutes long. Now they go on forever.”

You laugh a little, eyes snapping over to the doorway that adjoins your room to Ana’s. She’s hovering just outside of your direct line of sight, but you know she’s there. 

“Before I forget,” you lead, “one of my colleagues here at the school would like to consult on your case, if you’ll allow it.”

“That’s Dr. Banner’s call,” he answers, words clipped.

“Well, yes, I’ll be asking for his permission as well, but I’m not going to invite anyone else to look through your personal information without clearing it with you first.”

“Another doctor?”

“Technically, he’s a biochemist, but he’s been our team medic and in-house physician for years.  He’s the whole reason I want to become a doctor,” you explain. “He’s a really good person, Barnes.  He’d like to help.”

“He doesn’t know me,” he presses.

“But he knows me,” you insist. “And he knows that I care, so he cares. That’s how families work.”

“Fine.  You have my blessing,” he huffs.  “Anything else?”

“See you Saturday,” you reply. “Pending Dr. Banner’s approval.”

You listen as he exhales slowly, then hear the closet door open. “Thanks,” he says. “Gonna go watch that movie with Steve. You ever see _The French Connection_?”

“That’s not a cartoon,” you note.

“No shit. If I have to sit through another two hours of talking lions or enchanted castles, I might actually shoot someone.”

“Good night, Sergeant,” you chuckle.

“Night,” he says, then disconnects.

Ana peeks around the doorway, drumming her fingers against the wall.

“So…?”

You pat the end of the bed, inviting her to sit down.

“Dr. Grey spoke with you earlier. I’m not going to pretend like this isn’t a very serious situation, with potentially dangerous ramifications should things go south, so I need to know how involved you want to be.”

“You’re asking me? Not just telling me to stay out of it?”

“The only reason Barnes is alive is because of you, Ana. We wouldn’t have found him without you, and I don’t think he had much time left with that laceration.  Even if he’d survived it somehow, he was hurtling downhill in terms of his physical and mental condition. It was only a matter of time.”

“I want to stay involved,” she says firmly with a single nod of her head. “You don’t have to tell me everything—I don’t think I want to know everything—but I can handle this.”

“I know you can. That’s why I called you in the first place back in Brooklyn,” you answer, then pause while you mull over what needs to be said next. “He’s not in good shape.  We knew this would be difficult, but he’s worse than I expected.”

“So you’re going back to the city this weekend?”

You shoot her a look, lips pursed. “You know I am.  You listened to most of the conversation.”

“All of it, actually,” she admits with a slight blush. “I’m glad you’re going. He needs you.”

“Not sure about that,” you huff. “But if I can keep him steady long enough for Stark to examine his arm properly, disengage whatever it is that HYDRA built in as a killswitch, it’ll be worth the effort.”

“God, you can be a proper idiot sometimes,” she sighs, sliding off the bed and shuffling back to her room. “He needs you. You. Not whoever happens to be around, and not just to hold his hand.”

“Don’t be absurd,” you snort. “Even if that were the case—that Barnes has formed a particular attachment to me—he’s an absolute wreck.  I’m going to help, not to flirt, you little scoundrel.”

“Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep at night,” she snarks over her shoulder. “I know you’ve seen the photos of him in uniform. He was a fox.”

“He’s old enough to be our grandfather,” you remind her, throwing a pillow after her retreating form. “Go to bed!”

“The first step is denial!” she shouts back, before shutting the door behind her.

You sit up on the bed and scowl at your shared wall for several minutes before finally dismissing Ana’s suggestion as being utterly insane. Not to mention inappropriate.  Even if Barnes’ physical state wasn’t in shambles, even if he had his head on straight, the idea of _you_ and _him_ is ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

You shake your head and gather up the scattered papers off your duvet, tossing them onto the desk against the adjacent wall.  They’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Suppressing a yawn, you lie back down, burying your head into the veritable mountain of pillows piled up against the headboard.

Just before you drift to sleep, your phone buzzes again.  You grab it, swipe your finger across the screen and squint at the image displayed there, several seconds passing before you realize what you’re looking at.

“Ana!” you shout, dropping your mobile into your lap as if it's burned your fingers. The archive photo of Barnes in his Sergeant’s uniform is still lit up, his smile—and he really needs to smile more, goddamn—beaming at you from the screen.

She cackles wildly, the sound slightly muffled through the wall.

“Love you!” she singsongs, before devolving into another fit of laughter.

“Brat!”

“Learned from the best!”

You swear into one of your pillows before swatting a hand at the light switch next to the bed, plunging the room into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know this was a lot of talking, but I'm resigned to the fact that most of this story is going to be told through dialogue since it's happening to "you," in present-tense.
> 
> Anyway, hope everyone enjoys this installment. I'm still loosely following the outline of the original story, though a lot has changed already. As a side note, yes, this fic will blend the MCU movies, some comic book events, and the non-MCU Marvel movies (like the X-Men franchise, amongst others). I'd really like to find a way to work MCU Daredevil in, because GODDAMN THAT SHOW. <3 
> 
> I have seen A: AoU and while I didn't like everything they did with the story, I thought it was a solid movie. I'd rank it below CA: TWS, GoTG, Avengers, and Iron Man, but above pretty much all of the other MCU movies thus far. Good, not great. I could tell that Whedon (and I'm a die-hard Buffy fan from the days of yore) was getting a bit burnt-out with the combined universe, so I'm pretty psyched that the Russo Bros. will be taking over for Civil War. For anyone curious, I *do* plan on incorporating the A: AoU storyline into this story, with a few things adjusted to include the protagonist, Barnes, etc. So I guess maybe this counts as a slight AU? Might need to add a tag. :P 
> 
> Vacation went well, and my friend's wedding was lovely. The weather could have been more cooperative, but at least it didn't pour.
> 
> I'm starting work on the next chapter later tonight, so maybe it'll be up by tomorrow? We'll see. I'm trying not to rush anything.
> 
> Once again, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU, for all of the kudos, bookmarks, and comments. I'm excited just to see the story's hit count creep ever upward, so thank you to anyone bothering to read this as well. I really appreciate it!


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

 

You spend most of the next day reviewing course material with your students in anticipation of end-of-term exams, consulting with a few individually to go over college applications and recommendation letters, and then finally seeing nearly a dozen off as their parents or guardians arrive to spirit them home for the weekend.

Scott manages to corner you shortly after dinner, and while he tries to maintain a friendly air, you can tell he’s still annoyed with you.

“Danger Room in ten?” he asks, stacking the plates you’ve just washed in their cupboard.

“Not a training day,” you note, wiping down the edges of the sink. “Something in particular you wanted to go over?”

“No,” he answers with a shake of his head, light catching on the red lenses stretched across his eyes. “It’s just been a while since you and I sparred.”

You snort, balling the damp dishtowel up and tossing it at the backsplash. “Right. I thought we buried that hatchet.”

He sighs and turns around, leaning against the counter, suddenly looking his age. “Meet me down there,” he replies. “One simulation round, my choice, and then we can consider it resolved.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but if it’ll get you to stop scowling at me when you think I’m not looking, I’m game.”

“I don’t scowl,” he says. “I brood. There’s a difference.”

You wave him off and finish tidying up before heading down to the lower levels of the school. You know that whatever program Summers sets the simulator to, it’s going to be punishing. He may not be furious about the thing with Barnes anymore, but he's certainly disappointed in your decision-making, and he isn't the kind of person who can just pretend like none of it happened. He knows your personality and his own well enough to realize that means the both of you need to take a few swings, maybe see a little blood, in order to put the incident firmly in the past. Charles may prefer quiet discussion to resolve friction between members of the team, but that isn't always practical when people with such big personalities get to arguing.

Sometimes, it actually helps to hit someone.

You get changed in the team locker room, stripping out of your clothes and raising a pattern of concealing scales across your body in lieu of one of the team’s trademark black leather uniforms. You don’t know what parameters Summers is planning to set, but if you can shapeshift, clothing will only get in the way. You wouldn't put it past him to place a limit on use of powers, though. You may very well be walking into a bare-knuckle boxing match. Wouldn't be the first time.

You step out into the circular training room, bare feet smacking against the metal floor. Scott’s already inside, standing in the center as he plugs the specifications he’s decided on for your bout into the computer.

“I hate this place when the holograms aren’t running,” you tell him, gesturing at the slightly concave walls as he glances over his shoulder. “It’s creepy. Like a mausoleum.”

“Never thought of it that way,” he says with a shrug.

“So what’s the plan, Fearless Leader?” you ask, watching as the panels are illuminated with multiple points of blue-white light.

“Pretty standard run,” he says. “No giant robots or anything. This isn’t about that.”

“Right. Hatchets,” you confirm. “Ever wonder why we can’t do things like a normal family? Slam doors while shouting hateful things we’ll apologize for later?”

“Normal is boring,” he observes. “Besides, I think this is healthier over the long run.”

“You’re a strange, strange man, Summers.”

“So I’ve been told,” he says, laughing a bit.

The hologram finally solidifies and a low-pitched tone sounds, signaling the start of the program.

“Don’t hold back.”

“Have I ever?” you reply, and launch your attack.

 

* * *

 

Less than an hour later, you’re sprawled out on the floor, panting and exhausted. Summers is in similar shape, his uniform shredded in several places where claws and teeth managed to break through the leather and Kevlar.

“A hyena?” he groans. “Really?”

“You said not to hold back,” you snicker. “Be grateful I restricted myself to Holocene mammals.”

He pauses, turning his head to look directly at you, one hand still pressed to the nasty shoulder wound you’d inflicted with jaws capable of exerting over a thousand pounds of pressure per square inch. “Can you go back further than that?” he asks.

“Theoretically. The more primitive the animal, the harder it is to control. Kind of like putting the Blackbird’s engine in a DeLorean.”

“So, a T-rex?”

“Theoretically. Hank thinks it would be a disaster, and he’s usually right.”

“Still…”

“Stop strategizing,” you scold, reaching over to smack him lightly on the arm. “Get yourself down to Medical. You’re leaking blood everywhere.”

He rolls onto his feet, surprisingly steady.

“Will Jean be angry?” you ask, standing once you’re sure you won’t topple right over. He'd landed a solid hit to your right shoulder early in the fight, and while the pulverized bone and muscle had healed almost instantly, the memory of crushing, concussive pressure breaking your body down to the molecular level lingers.

“Nah, you left my face alone,” he says, and for a moment you see the boyish, charming man so often hidden behind the stern mask of the X-Men’s defacto leader. When he’s like this, you get why Jean is so wrapped up in him. Like, _really_ get it.

“We good?”

“He hurts you, I’m gonna have to hurt him back,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“He’s not going to,” you assure him. “Even for someone who understands how, that’s difficult to do, as you’re well aware.”

He sighs and limps out of the Danger Room, presumably to get himself patched up. “Just remember that I warned you,” he calls, not bothering to turn around.

“Like you’d ever let me forget,” you snipe before slipping back into the locker room to shower and change. You’re just stepping under the spray of hot water when you realize he never actually said that things were okay between you when you’d asked.

“That sly son of a…”

You’re about to go off on a rather obscene tangent when you hear the locker room door open and then shut.

“Ya decent?” Logan growls.

“Very, very naked,” you inform him. “What’s up?”

“Natasha Romanoff is on the phone upstairs. Said you weren’t answering your cell. You gave those downtown assholes the campus number?”

“She’s a spy, Logan,” you snap, cutting the hot water off with another string of swear words. “Besides, I’m pretty sure we’re listed.”

He grunts and looks away as you get a towel wrapped around yourself. You could grow scales again, but frankly, you’re a hairsbreadth from simply laying down on the floor and going to sleep, so sod it, the towel will have to suffice.

“Seemed urgent,” he grumbles, choosing to stare at a spot on the wall just above your head.

“When isn’t it urgent?” you scowl, motioning for him to turn around as you get your clothes back on. “Did she give you any specifics?”

“No. Implied it was none of my business.”

You tug your shoes on and brush past him, “She still on the line?”

“I have her on hold. Professor’s office is clear if you want to take it in there,” he answers, following you out.

You both take the elevator up to the main floor, silent during the short ride because Logan is like you and doesn’t feel the need to fill empty spaces with even emptier words.

“Want me to get your bike ready?” he asks as you step out into the wood-paneled hallway.

“Top off the gas for me. I repacked my kit yesterday. I was going to call Dr. Banner today to see if it was okay to visit, but if this is an emergency and the Black Widow is calling to give me a heads up, I’ll have to assume he’s already been consulted.”

Logan just shrugs and splits off from you, heading towards the garage. You quicken your pace, your imagination already running a mile-a-minute with all of the disastrous scenarios that might be taking place at Avengers Tower.

You slip into Charles’ office and snatch the phone up off his desk.

“Romanoff?”

“Still here,” she says, cool as a cucumber. “You guys have to invest in a better hold service. That music was terrible.”

“What’s going on? Logan seemed to think this wasn’t just a friendly call,” you ask, wandering over to the bank of windows behind the desk.

“Barnes had another episode,” she answers. “Bruce is working with some of the other medical staff on a plan to get him stabilized. Probably with a lot of heavy narcotics.”

“Is he currently conscious?”

“Yes, but he’s not himself, if you get my meaning,” she says. “I’m not sure what happened—I wasn’t there—but he’s getting worse by the minute. Steve is trying to get through, but it’s not working. He suggested calling you.”

“Is Barnes contained?” you ask, dreading the idea of having to ask the Professor or Jean about getting Ana involved so soon after your dressing-down by the team. “Safe? Y’know, relatively speaking.”

“Stark put his suit on and wrestled him into one of the containment pods built for The Hulk,” she answers. “Steve helped.”

“And the three of them were, what? Hanging out, playing _Call of Duty_ in Stark's living room?”

“Barnes volunteered to speak with Tony this afternoon. Went up to the R&D labs and started telling him everything he knew about the arm, which is a lot, turns out.”

“Any idea what set him off?”

“Nothing definite, but JARVIS was recording everything. About twenty minutes into Barnes’ show-and-tell, there was a surge of electrical activity originating from inside the prosthetic. Our best guess is that it short-circuited his brain.”

“Seems awfully convenient,” you mutter, chewing on your thumbnail.

“I had the same thought,” she confirms. “He finally opens up and starts giving us intel that’s actually useful, and he gets shut down and the Winter Soldier gets switched on.”

“Fucking HYDRA,” you swear.

“Yeah, they’re a real fun crowd,” she deadpans. “Look, Barnes is secure, but he’s extremely violent and unstable. Steve thinks you’re our best chance of fixing that, though he won’t say why.”

“It’s—”

“Complicated,” she finishes for you. “I figured. You don’t have to explain anything to me. If Steve trusts you, I trust you. At least until you give me a good reason not to.”

“I can be there in forty-five minutes,” you tell her.

“Tower Security wants him neutralized. We’ve convinced Hill to stand down for now, but Tony’s patience is wearing thin. He really hates it when his stuff gets smashed.”

“I’ll push for thirty,” you tell her, wincing as you think of the network of narrow, winding roads that carve their way through Westchester towards the city.

“Do that,” she says, then abruptly disconnects.

You toss the phone back on the desk and sprint out of Charles’ office, up the ornate staircase, and back to your quarters. Ana looks up, surprised, as you burst in, two of your camisoles still clutched in her hands.

“I wasn’t going to borrow them without asking,” she stammers, quickly stuffing both back into your dresser.

“We’ll discuss your sticky fingers later,” you growl, slamming the drawer shut. “I don’t have time for this right now.”

“What happened?” she asks, taking a few steps back to stay out of your way as you pull your emergency bag from the walk-in closet. “Is it Barnes?”

“Yes,” you tell her, peeking inside the pack to make sure you don’t need anything else. “And it’s bad. I have to get down there now, before Stark’s people do something stupid.”

She sits down on the edge of your bed, watching you wide-eyed and clearly frightened.

“It’s going to be all right,” you reassure her, pausing in your scramble to lean over and press a kiss to her forehead. “They’ve got him secured where he can’t hurt anyone.”

Her eyes glaze over for a moment, unfocused, and she shivers.

“No!“ you bark, grabbing her by the shoulders and giving a little shake. “Don’t do that. Not unless we discuss it with the Professor and Dr. Grey first. No more secret missions. Everything is above-board from now on.”

She blinks, and bites her lip. “But I can help,” she protests. “You said so yourself. It would only take a few minutes, probably, and then he’d be okay.”

“No, not like that. You know what the Professor says about trying to fix people’s brains using telepathy, yeah?”

Ana slumps her shoulders and looks away. “That sometimes the mind needs to discover things for itself,” she recites. “But—”

“No. He’s right. Whatever we did, it might have helped Barnes for a few days, but it’s not a permanent solution. He has to do that himself. No shortcuts,” you tell her before grabbing your bag and slinging it across your chest and shoulder.

“Hurry,” she tells you. “Don’t leave him alone in that place.”

“Ana…”

“Go!” she pleads, pushing you away from the bed. “I’ll stay up with my phone, in case you decide you do need me.”

You hate the implication there; that because you’ve told her to stay out of Barnes’ head for now, you don’t need or want her help at all, but there really isn’t any time to spare for an explanation.

“I’ll check in when I can,” you say instead, then dash out of your room, leaving Ana and her disappointment behind.

You’re back down in the garage in a matter of minutes, and Logan is waiting with your bike, already walking it out onto the circular drive.

“How bad?” he asks as you catch up, taking your helmet when it’s offered.

“I won’t really know until I’m there and can see what’s going on, but it sounds like he’s down for the count,” you sigh. “I think this is my fault.”

“Oh?” he asks, pulling a cigar out from a pocket inside his leather jacket.

“I was a bit hard on him last night when we spoke on the phone. He hasn’t been very cooperative since arriving at the Tower and I—“

“You did the thing,” Logan says, nodding and shoving the cigar in his mouth.

“What thing?”

“That thing you do,” he grumbles, tearing a match out of the little book he always has on him and lighting up. “The guilt thing.”

“Oh fuck off,” you groan, mounting the bike and starting the engine.

“You can be a manipulative little shit sometimes, Duchess,” he replies, never one to pull punches.

“I was trying to help,” you balk, mildly offended. “And if I’m manipulative, it’s because that’s the only way I can keep you idiots alive.”

“Better get goin’,” he says, blowing out a steady stream of fragrant smoke. “Avoid the main roads until you hit the parkway.”

“Thanks, that hadn’t occurred to me,” you toss over your shoulder before gunning the engine and ripping through the front gates of the school, gravel and dirt spraying in a rooster’s tail behind you.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t just let you waltz in there,” Stark says, poking you in the chest. “He’ll tear you apart.”

“He won’t,” you tell him for the millionth time.

“And I’d still like to know why you’re so sure of that, why Captain Spangly Britches seems to think you’re some kind of HYDRA assassin-whisperer.”

“Is that what she is?” Natasha murmurs to Steve.

You’re all gathered in the thoroughly trashed remains of Stark’s personal R&D lab, the chaos of Barnes’ relapse laying shattered and torn apart around you. Pieces of Tony’s latest Iron Man suit sit in a pile near his feet, discarded. It’s been almost an hour since you left Westchester, and your very shallow well of patience is nearly tapped.

“You’re going to have to trust me. I’ll sign whatever papers you want stating Stark Industries isn’t responsible for what happens to me—”

“You think I’m worried about liability?” Stark asks, pressing one hand against his chest and doing his best to appear affronted. “Listen sweetheart, I don’t know how they do things up at Hogwarts—”

“Call me _sweetheart_ again,” you warn, sneer gone feral around the edges, “and you best be wearing your suit.”

“Oh, I like you,” Pepper sighs. “Can we keep her?”

“No,” he snaps. “And in case you missed it, Comrade Popsicle trashed my suit.”

“Couldn’t have been a very good one,” you shoot back.

“It was a prototype,” he concedes, then shakes his head, annoyed that you got him to sort-of agree with you. “Clear the room.”

“Tony…” Steve starts, holding his hands up.

“Get out,” Stark sneers. “Hermione and I need to talk.”

“Again with the Harry Potter references,” you groan, staring up at the ceiling.

“We’ll be right outside,” Natasha says, squeezing your arm before leaving with the rest.

“Be nice,” Pepper warns, though you can’t be sure if she means you or her paramour.

“You gotta give me something here,” Tony says once you’re alone. “I don’t think it’s any secret that I have trust issues.”

“Hard to keep secrets when you’re constantly blathering on about them whenever a news crew shows up,” you counter.

“God, this is like having an argument with myself,” he groans, kicking one of the pieces of his armor into the nearest wall. “Can we just—for like, five minutes—have a conversation without trying to one-up each other?"

You snort and shift your weight from one leg to the other. “This isn’t entirely my information to give. Sharing it with you will have serious ramifications for people I care about. For my family,” you pause, letting that sink in. “I’ll consent to tell you whatever you need to hear about myself. But they are off limits.”

“Understood,” he nods. “I can appreciate compartmentalization. Worked with S.H.I.E.L.D. long enough to see the benefits. And the costs.”

“Barnes is a consequence of that compartmentalization," you remind him. "The Winter Soldier last served under HYDRA, which was part of—"

“I know. Jesus Christ, I get it. All the same, we're still between a rock and hard place. I gotta know he won't turn you into a red smear the second you walk through that door. You gotta give me something more to go on.”

“Barnes can’t hurt me,” you repeat. “I have abilities that make it nearly impossible for him to do so.”

“Abilities,” Stark parrots, skeptical. “Like Steve’s? Or… Who are you?”

You lean forward, crossing your arms over your chest and feeling that telltale itch creeping along your spine. “Not who, but what,” you correct. “Tell me, Mr. Stark, do you have a favorite animal?”

 

* * *

 

“Hoo boy,” Stark breathes, still backed up against one of the lab’s workbenches. “That was—I mean. How do you? The mass you need to generate and then destroy, that—uh—physics, you know?”

“I know,” you tell him, toeing the remains of your shredded clothes. You’ve raised a thick layer of leathery skin and scales over most of your body, determined to keep some of your dignity intact. “We haven’t quite figured out all the processes involved.”

“The applications—”

“Don’t,” you warn, a throaty growl accompanying your words.

“Right, right. That was rude. Probably,” he says, running his fingers through mussed hair.

“Tell your AI to delete all recordings of what I did,” you add.

“It’s almost like you don’t trust me,” Stark gripes before directing JARVIS to do as you’ve instructed. The AI is impressive, not to mention terribly polite in a way that makes you homesick. 

“Am I clear to go in there now?” you ask, glancing toward the back of the lab where a wall of dark grey hexagonal panels splits the room.

“You know he can kill a tiger about as easily as he can kill a person, right? I mean, he can go toe-to-toe with Rogers and me suited up.”

“I don’t need to shock him with a flashy transformation,” you tell Stark, turning towards the isolation pod. “That’s where you lot have it all wrong.”

“Care to elaborate on that?”

“It’s kindness that pulls Barnes out. He’s not accustomed to it. Punishment, he knows, even expects. Violence. Anger. He hits you, you hit him back. Understandable, but all wrong,” you explain.

“I can't believe this. You really are going to try to assassin-whisper him, aren’t you?”

“We need to break through the conditioning, Mr. Stark. We need to shock him, get his brain to reboot. Barnes needs an opening so he can take back control from the Asset. That’s why Steve had Natasha call me. That's why I’m here.”

“I’m bringing the rest of them back in,” he tells you, already headed toward the hallway that leads out to the elevator. “Just in case.”

You shrug, standing in front of the pressure-sealed door that leads into the pod. “JARVIS?” you ask, glancing up at the ceiling as if that’s where the AI lives.

“Yes, madam,” he replies.

“Cycle the outer lock open,” you tell him. “Then seal it once I step inside. Wait fifteen seconds, then cycle the inner lock open.”

“I’m afraid I’ll need Mr. Stark’s approval to—”

“Do what the crazy lady says,” Tony calls from down the hallway. “I’ll be back with the whole gang in a minute.”

 

* * *

 

The inner door has only just swung open when something heavy and black slams into the wall exactly where your head had been moments before.

 _His boot_ , you realize, slipping inside and dodging the left hook also aiming for your head. Barnes comes at you again, wasting no time, pulling his metal arm back to try once more for a killing blow.

You move into _koshinage_ , grabbing his wrist as his curled fist rockets towards you, open the space between your torsos—you briefly see the look of surprise on his face—turn into his chest, and use his own forward momentum to twist him up and over your back, then down onto the floor where he rolls to his feet with a snarl.

You pivot, reset your stance, and wait for his next move.

He launches himself at you, swinging wildly, screaming something in Russian that you don’t quite catch, and you calmly dodge again, stepping around his careening form without ever letting him touch you.

The battle carries on, Barnes becoming more erratic and desperate as his strength flags and his frustration grows.

 _Sumi otoshi, nikyo, kotegaeshi, hiji waza, and koshinage_ once more, the practiced movements turning each of the Asset’s attacks back on itself, conserving your own energy and wasting his. Aikido. The way of harmonious spirit. Logan had hated your choice of martial arts, practically having kittens when you’d followed up with Capoeira.

Thankfully, the former seems to be serving you quite well thus far.

Until suddenly it doesn’t.

Barnes drops low and shoulders you in the stomach—the same thing he’d done to Steve in Queens—throwing your balance and sending you into the far wall. He rushes forward and pins you, that metal arm grabbing you by the throat and squeezing.

You hear the airlock cycling open, manage to shout for the others to stand down, to wait. You gasp as Barnes squeezes tighter, crushing your windpipe. You lock eyes with him and initiate rapid-fire changes that cause your torso to prickle with energy as entire protein chains are rearranged. He looks confused when you don’t black out from the lack of oxygen, when you don’t scrabble against him with pain and fear.

Instead, you lift one hand and press it against his face, practically a habit by now. _You know me_.

Snarling, he slams your head against the wall and then finally looks down.

Both sides of your stomach have gone hard, chitinous, rows of spiracles—small indentations found along the thorax of most insects—allowing air to flow down into connecting tubes, where oxygen mixes with liquid that then transports the vital gas directly to your cells through your circulatory system.

Who needs a throat?

The fingers of his flesh hand trail along the ridges before stopping to hold onto your waist, his thumb brushing over the raised scales that arch over your hips. The metal digits of the other flex, relieving some of the pressure against your throat.

“вы действительно здесь,” he says, confused and surprised by his own words. He swallows hard, then lets you go completely. You cough, dissolving the spiracles and repairing the damage to your windpipe.

Cold blue eyes fix on yours and you try your hardest to smile, to remain non-threatening as he works through the opening you’ve provided.

“Я знаю тебя.”

“Yes,” you cough again, clearing your throat. The sparring session with Summers had you exhausted before you’d rushed downtown, then you’d had to provide a demonstration for Stark, and finally the thorax trick had cost what little energy you’d left in reserve. If you push much further, your body will start cannibalizing itself to remain functional.

“Are—” He swallows again, shakes his head and takes a few more steps away from you. “Are you with them?”

“Need you to be more specific,” you tell him, staying exactly where he put you against the wall.

“HYDRA. Pierce. Are you my new handler?” he asks, voice gone soft, submissive, eyes darting to the side as he shrinks in on himself. “I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry. I didn’t know. They didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I’m not your handler, I’m not with HYDRA,” you tell him. "Pierce is dead."

"Then you’re here to put me down,” he says with a grim acceptance that makes your chest ache. “My mission failed.”

"No, I’m not going to hurt you at all. What’s the last thing you remember?”

He blinks, and then shakes his head. “I woke up in the lab. They were trying to—” he looks to his left, at his arm, and cringes. “I don’t want to kill people anymore.”

“Do you know who you are? Your name?”

“I—no. I did. I had a name, once. But not anymore.”

Slowly, you sink down onto the floor, drawing your knees up and resting your arms across them. Barnes watches you, wary, then does the same.

“Everything I’m about to tell you is true,” you start, licking your lips. “And it’s a long story, so bear with me, okay?”

“Okay,” he breathes, ducking his head down and covering the back of his skull with his hands, as if he expects to be hit.

While he stares at the floor between his feet, you recount everything you know about his life all the way up to the battle at the Triskelion, then about Rogers ambushing you after your meeting with Fury, about Brooklyn, and Queens, and the series of events within the Tower that lead to this.

"You're not in a HYDRA lab, James. You're in New York, and you're safe. No one is trying to hurt you."

He squints and looks at you, really looks. Quietly, he says your name, blinks, and comes back to himself with a sharp intake of breath.

You scoot forward and pin him before he shuts down all over again. "It's okay, take deep breaths, relax," you repeat over and over, curling yourself around him as if that will somehow insulate him from his own terror.

"Oh Christ," he swears, "Please tell me I didn't hurt anyone."

"Steve told me you managed to warn them just before you went away,” you tell him. “That’s how Tony got his suit on in time. You did good, Sergeant.”

“They’ll lock me up,” he gasps against you. “Steve stuck his neck out for me and I fuckin’ blew it.”

“Stop that,” you soothe, petting his hair and prying his fingers away from where they’re digging into his scalp. “Do you really think any of them agreed to bring you here without knowing how bad it could get? Tony Stark is a lot of things, but he’s not an idiot.”

“Jesus Christ,” he swears again, rocking on the floor and clutching at your arms. “I coulda killed them both.”

“But you didn’t. They handled it and told me to come down right away. Here I am, and here we are. It’s over; you’re in control again.”

“Where’s Steve?” he asks. “I gotta talk to him. I gotta—”

The inner door cycles open and Rogers steps in, hands out at his sides. “Buck?”

“Fuck, Steve, m’sorry. I didn’t—”

“Hey, no, it’s okay,” Steve tells him, slowly crossing the room to join the two of you on the floor. “It’s just stuff, Bucky. Stark having his lab trashed is practically a weekly occurrence around here.”

“Is he mad?”

“He’s not happy,” Steve laughs, throwing his friend a lopsided smile. “But I told him to send me the bill. Don’t worry about it.”

“This isn’t gonna work,” Barnes says, looking between you and Rogers. “I’m too—they took too much out. I need you to—” He releases his hold on you to grab Rogers by his shirt. “You gotta do it, Steve.”

“Do what?” he asks, brow furrowed. “What’re you talking about?”

“Put me down,” Barnes gasps. “There’s not enough left, they took it all out. Don’t you get it? I’m already—”

“That’s enough,” you hiss, pressing both hands against either side of his face. “You listen to me, James Buchanan Barnes, you don’t get to quit just because this turned out to be harder than you’d like. And you sure as shit don’t get to ask your best friend to put a bullet in you as if he’d be doing you a favor.”

He stares, eyes wide and full of fear. “Please,” he begs. “I can’t do this.”

“Find a way,” you insist, curling your fingers into his hair and tugging gently.

“I'm tired,” he says, eyes drifting shut. “So goddamn tired.”

“I know, Buck,” Steve answers, looking like he’s about to cry. “Let’s get you back to the apartment. Tony’s people need to get up here to start the clean-up anyway.”

“Okay,” Barnes says, shifting back onto his knees. “Whatever you say, Steve.”

Just like in Brooklyn, and later in Queens, you take Barnes’ weight on one side while Rogers takes the other. Slung between the two of you, you make it into the airlock. JARVIS doesn’t need to be prompted to cycle the outer door open.

Natasha and Wilson are waiting on the other side, along with another man you haven’t been introduced to yet. He’s got a thigh-holster, like Nat, but seems far less comfortable sharing space with Barnes. Or maybe it’s you. Hard to tell with people, sometimes.

“Clint,” Steve says with a nod. “Where’s Stark?”

“Pep convinced him to stay upstairs until we get everyone stowed away,” the man—Clint—replies. “You okay, buddy?” he asks, tilting his head toward Barnes.

“Fuck off, Barton,” Bucky growls.

The other man just laughs. “You still sore about that dart game?” he asks, shaking his head. “I’ll give you the five bucks back if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Not now, Clint,” Steve warns, then motions with a toss of his head to move out. “Let’s go home.”

 

* * *

 

Barnes is silent as you and Steve get him cleaned up once you reach their shared apartment. Steve had told you it was an “adjoining suite,” like yours and Ana’s, but it’s really just one huge space with bedrooms on opposite sides, the common room, kitchen, and a small home gym set squarely in the middle.

It’d be cute, you think, if the entire situation weren’t so damned tragic.

“I can do it myself,” Barnes tells you, wrenching his arm away to pull his torn shirt up over his head. You hand him a replacement, just a plain white tee, but not before doing a cursory check to make sure he isn’t too badly banged up. A little black-and-blue, but no open wounds, and nothing that would indicate internal damage.

Steve steps out to go talk with Stark upstairs, leaving you to get Barnes sorted.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get down here earlier,” you tell him, turning around as he shucks his pants off. “You told me you needed the help and I wasn’t listening.”

“Not your fault,” he grunts. “You’re not my Ma.”

“I know that,” you reply, turning your head slightly so he can see your profile. “But I feel like this is—at least partially—my fault.”

“How do you figure?” he asks, walking to his closet after pulling on a clean pair of sweatpants.

“What I said yesterday, about you not holding up your end of our bargain. Was anything that happened today—you going to Stark to talk about your arm—because you thought I was going to stay away if you didn’t?”

He freezes in front of the open closet, then slowly lets out the breath he’d been holding.

“I wanted to see you,” he says, still staring straight ahead. “And you were right. I wasn’t giving this a chance. I figured dumping as much information in Stark’s lap as possible would help speed things up. My arm—it’s not working right. Needs a tech. Maintenance.”

“And there’s the killswitch,” you remind him, brain skipping right over the _I wanted to see you_ bit, because those words summoned an entire swarm of butterflies in your stomach and you don't want to consider what that means.

“That too,” he says, nodding. “But mostly, I wanted to see you.”

“Barnes—”

“I dream about you,” he confesses, finally turning to look in your direction. “When I don’t dream about _them_ , about everything else that happened.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, crossing some of the distance between you. “What Ana and I did... I can’t be sure that we didn’t leave something behind. But I can get someone to check, and we can fix it if—”

“No,” he cuts you off. “No, please don’t. I can’t—I need you there. Here, too.”

“I can’t stay,” you tell him, as gently as you can. “But I’ll be here as often as possible, provided Stark doesn’t ban me from the premises."

“He won’t,” Barnes says. “Steve will make sure of it.”

“Okay,” you answer slowly. “Look, you finish getting cleaned up and I’ll go put the kettle on.”

You turn and start walking out of the room, but are stopped by his hand on your wrist. He turns you, easy as anything, and wraps his arms around your shoulders, tucking his head against yours.

“You’re really here?” he asks, and despite yourself, you hug him back, planting a chaste kiss against his temple.

“I’m really here.”

“Good,” he says. “I missed you.”

Oh, _H_ _ell_.

“I missed you too, Barnes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! This one took me a while to write, what with all the set changes ;) Apologies once more for typos and other assorted errors. I haven't had much time to proofread this. 
> 
> I'll be back to the A/N box later with more of my own thoughts, but for now...
> 
> Translations:
> 
> “вы действительно здесь." = You're really here.  
> “Я знаю тебя.” = I know you.
> 
> 5/28 correction: So I know that the X-Men movies incorrectly portray Scott's optic blasts as lasers (occasionally burning through things rather than breaking them apart), and I was okay with continuing that error here... but in retrospect, I'd rather write his powers more in-line with the comics. So, for the record, Scott Summers does not shoot lasers from his eyeballs.


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

 

Gradually, Barnes pulls you closer to him until your cheek is pressed against his chest.  You can hear his heart beating beneath his ribs; unable to stop a secret smile at the slightly elevated rhythm.

However, the proximity also reminds you that you’re still mostly naked, and with your energy flagging it’s only a matter of time before the scales and thick leathery plates covering your more delicate bits become too much to maintain.

You give him one last squeeze around his middle before pulling back. He looks down, puzzled and disappointed, something like a whine slipping past his lips.

“Sorry,” you apologize. “But I should probably put some clothes on. People might start to talk.”

He huffs and lets you go completely, stalking over to his dresser and dragging one of the drawers open roughly. “You’re gonna be swimming in my clothes,” he says, and his voice has a brittle, harsh quality you haven’t heard before.

“That’s all right,” you answer, stepping up behind him to accept whatever is offered. “It’s just for the time being.  Ms. Potts had my bag dropped off in one of the guest suites a few floors down; I’ll change later.”

He grunts and hands you a t-shirt (good lord, it smells like him), and sweatpants.  You get yourself sorted, tying off the bottom of the shirt to keep it from swallowing you.  Unprompted, he reaches out and tugs the waistband of the sweats up higher on your hips.

“Need a belt,” he murmurs.

“I can tie them off, same as the top,” you shrug, looking down as you do just that.  The result isn’t pretty, but it’s better than wrapping yourself in a sheet or prancing about skyclad and scandalous.

He leans back against the dresser, staring first at the floor and then over your shoulder at the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city.

“Sleepy?” you ask, breaking the silence and motioning to the perfectly made bed behind you.  You have a sneaking suspicion he hasn’t slept in it once.

“No,” he answers with a slight shake of his head.  “I don’t really sleep so much as switch off for a few hours.”

“You slept fine in Brooklyn,” you counter, once again irritated by his habit of talking about himself like he’s a thing and not a person.

“You drugged me,” he points out. “And I was down a few pints of blood.”

You roll your eyes and stick your tongue out at him, which is totally an adult response and not at all juvenile.  “Right. Hungry then?”

He tenses and swallows hard but doesn’t answer.

“Barnes? Are you hungry?” you repeat. “It’s okay if you are. I mean, it's not _okay_ , you shouldn’t be skipping meals or—It’s okay if you admit that you’re hungry, is what I'm trying to say.”

He gives a curt nod, and you can see his jaw working as if he’s trying to answer but can’t.

“There's no punishment coming,” you remind him, taking a step forward and reaching out to touch his arm; grounding him in this time and this place, leading him back from wherever his mind is wandering off to.

“I know,” he wheezes. “I know you wouldn’t—” He slams his metal fist into the dresser behind him, cracking the polished veneer. “I just _can’t_ sometimes. Like I still have that fucking muzzle on.”

“C’mon,” you tilt your head at the door. “I’ll make you sandwich or something.  Think you can keep that down?”

“Don’t know,” he sighs, looking at the damage he’s done to Stark’s fancy furniture. “They’ve had me on liquids, mostly.”

You decline to note that he hasn’t been consuming those as directed either, ignoring the impulse to scold a disobedient patient.

“Well, as an almost-doctor, I think we should probably stick to the nutritional plan that’s been designed for you, but as a very hungry woman, what I really want is a goddamn sandwich.  Let’s call it an ‘experimental deviation from established protocols’ and see what happens, yeah?”

“Okay,” he says, and follows you out of his bedroom, through the common area and into the kitchen. He continues to track your movements, eventually taking a seat on one of the stools pushed up against the island.

“You like horseradish?” you ask, piling condiments and fresh produce on the white granite countertop.

“Maybe. I—I don’t remember, honestly.  We didn’t grow up eating like people do today.”

“How do you mean?” you turn, making eye contact before returning to the task at hand.

“You have an abundance of everything, for starters,” he tells you, tracing patterns on the surface of the island before realizing what he’s doing and tucking his metal arm away, out of sight.  “I mean, me an’ Steve were never starving or nothing, but we couldn’t have imagined a kitchen stocked like this.”

“Did you have a favorite meal?” you ask. “Back then?”

“Steve’s Ma made oxtail soup sometimes,” he answers. “Things were tight in the thirties. We ate a lot of vegetables and beans.”

“Great Depression,” you nod, stacking slices of roast beef on bread smeared with horseradish, chopped shallots and Fresno chili peppers, parsley, watercress, and sharp white cheddar.  You pull a knife free from its block, catching the way his eyes widen slightly before he forces himself to relax, and cut each sandwich in half.

“Pepper is mild,” you tell him, passing him a plate and a glass of water. “If it’s too hot, I can make you something else.”

“Never had much spicy food,” he says, studying the meal set in front of him. “Not that I can recall, anyway.”

“It’s not for everyone,” you concede. “The horseradish is probably the real wild card, though.”

You hop up onto the counter, feet dangling just above the floor, and take a bite.  The bread isn’t the slightest bit stale, despite having probably been made early this morning, and the beef is perfectly seasoned, tender, and delicious.

“Need to ask Stark who his butcher is,” you mutter, holding your hand in front of your mouth to prevent giving Barnes a show.  

“Shouldn't talk with your mouth open,” he teases. "No one's got any manners these days."  He starts to take his first bite and then locks up, frozen.  He hovers like that for a long moment, then his teeth snap shut with an audible click.

“What—?” you slide off the counter, concerned as he exhales hard through his nose, staring at the sandwich like it’s going to attack him.  His eyes dart to yours and there’s a flash of fear in them, swiftly supplanted by frustration.

“This is more of their conditioning,” you snarl, padding around the island to run your hand up his metal arm.  You can feel the strain there, the barely contained tremble.  “What do you need me to do?”

“Permission,” he gasps, face flushing with embarrassment.

“Eat, Barnes,” you reply immediately, and he crams the sandwich into his mouth so fast you’re afraid he’ll choke. “Whoa, whoa! Easy!”

He jerks away, pulling the other half of his meal as far from you as he can, as if you’re going to take it away from him.  Still, his eyes are telegraphing fear, not anger, and you’re fairly sure that if his mouth wasn’t full of meat and bread, he’d be begging you to please just let him eat.

“Chew,” you order. “Swallow what’s in your mouth.”

He winces but does as you’ve instructed, slowly returning the plate back to the counter. “S-sorry,” he says when he’s able to speak again. “I don’t know why—”

“Yes you do,” you tell him, smoothing a hand down the back of his head, dragging your fingers through his hair.  “We both do, and it’s not okay, but it’s not your fault either. You need to know that.”

He sighs, leaning back into your touch. “Easier to remember when you’re here to remind me.”

Something in your throat catches and you have to take a moment to steady yourself.

“Eat your sandwich, Barnes,” you tell him. “Slowly, this time. And if you want more, I’ll make you more.”

He nods and starts on the second half.

 

* * *

 

Barnes is halfway through his third sandwich when Steve returns from his impromptu meeting with Stark upstairs.  He waves to both of you and takes a seat next to Bucky at the kitchen island.

“That looks good, Buck,” he says, bright blue eyes glancing in your direction for a moment. “What is it?”

“Sandwich,” Barnes answers with a mouthful of food.

“Roast beef with horseradish and a few other things,” you add. “I’d offer to make you one, but someone has eaten all the meat.”

Steve laughs.

“And most of the horseradish.”

“It’s good!” Barnes defends, wiping his hands on his pants until you toss a dish cloth at him.  “Have you tried it?” he asks Rogers.

“Sandwiches?”

“Horseradish.  I don’t think we ever had it when we were kids, but I thought you might remember different.”

“It’s all right, I guess,” Steve says, still smiling. “And no, I don’t think we did either.  Most exotic thing on our kitchen table was spaghetti.”

“That’s tragic,” you sigh. “I don’t know if I could live without pork buns.”

“Pork what?” Barnes asks, looking up at you from his clean plate.

“Oh my god, you’re going to make me cry.”

He smiles and you reach over the island to wipe crumbs and a smear of sauce from his chin.  You can see Steve watching you intently out of the corner of your eye, curious, but you play the entire thing off as if it were nothing (because it’s not, obviously, and because if it were that would be the worst idea ever).

Barnes just smiles a bit wider and pushes his plate forward.

“Oh no,” you waggle a finger. “I don’t do dishes if I did the cooking.”

He pouts and looks to Steve for support, but his friend leaves him thoroughly in the cold.

“Don't look at me, pal.”

You vacate the kitchen while Barnes cleans up the mess, taking a seat on the living room couch with Rogers.

“This is the best I’ve seen him all week,” Steve tells you, voice pitched low.  “You even got him to eat.”

“He was hungry,” you explain. “But he’s still having a hard time doing anything about it. It seems to help if you give him permission, or frame the suggestion as a command.  It’s a crap thing to have to do, but—”

“We’ve been doing that,” he interrupts, glancing furtively behind him where his friend is holding his flesh hand under the faucet, testing the temperature of the water. “Trying to, anyway. He either ignores us or locks himself in his room, which is just another way of ignoring us.”

“I don’t know then,” you huff.

“Natasha thinks he’s imprinted on you,” Rogers continues, picking up the nearby remote and turning the massive flat screen TV on.

“He’s not a duckling,” you scowl. “Why would she think that?”

“It’s part of the programming.  They’d take him out of cryo, get him functional again, and then start plugging his head full of mission details.  Last step before launching the op was to have him imprint on his handler, someone who would hold ultimate authority over him. Pierce was the last one.”

You pull back slightly, blinking rapidly and trying to let the information sink in. “And he thinks I’m his new handler?”

Steve shrugs. “It’s what Natasha thinks, and she knows a lot about this stuff.  The KGB didn’t do to her what HYDRA did to him, but the process was close enough that she can be counted on as a reliable firsthand source.”

“I can’t be—Steve, that can’t be how this works,” you tell him. “I am not going to play a part that HYDRA designed. The thought alone makes me want to vomit.”

“We may not have a choice,” he says, and you know he’s not happy about it either. “You’re the one he wants.”

“But—” you groan and slump against the couch. “He’s your best friend. You were his commanding officer; if anyone is best suited to do this, it’d be—”

“That’s not how it was with us,” he interrupts, shaking his head and thumbing the volume up on the TV. “Bucky was always the one looking out for me, pulling my ass out of the fire, finishing the fights I couldn’t.  In the Army, I may have outranked him, but I never commanded him to do anything. Wouldn’t even know how.”

“Oh, my sweet, giddy aunt,” you protest weakly, scrubbing your hand across your face.

“What’d you do?” Barnes asks, approaching the couch, apparently having caught your most recent complaint despite the noise provided by the TV.

“I didn’t—” you start, but Barnes waves you off.

“Not you,” he says, staring at Rogers. _“You.”_

“We were just talking,” Steve says, trying to sound as innocent as possible and failing miserably.

“Don’t,” you warn. “Let’s not bring obfuscation and lies into this, it's complicated enough on its own.”

“What he said upset you,” Barnes growls. “Tell me. Whatever it is—Am I being kicked out?”

“No,” Steve assures him. “You broke a few tables and computer monitors, Buck.  I know you’ve never been to one of Tony’s parties, but what happened earlier today is nothing compared to—”

“Then what did you say that got her—”and Barnes points emphatically in your direction—“so upset?”

“There’s a theory floating around,” you tell him. “About why you're doing so much better now that I’m here.  Natasha believes—and Rogers is in agreement—that your programming is still active enough that you’re subconsciously looking for a handler.”

“And you’re it?” he asks, walking around to the other side of the couch and taking a seat on the footrest in front of you.

“It’s just a theory,” you offer lamely.

“I wouldn’t mind if you were,” he says, looking everywhere except at you. “But you already knew that.”

“She’s uncomfortable with the idea,” Rogers pipes up. “But not because of you.”

“Because of them,” Barnes nods. “Because they’re the ones who made it necessary.”

“Buck…”

“No,” he says, mouth pressed into a thin line. “It’s a good point, a good guess. They took everything else from me, so why not this?”

“This?” you ask, reaching forward to grab his metal hand where its digging into the skin of its flesh counterpart.  He pulls away from you, raising his chin defiantly.

“You’re not my fuckin’ handler,” he spits. “I want you here.  Me.  Just me. Those motherfuckers have nothing to do with it. I won’t—they don’t get this too. Not you.”

“We can’t know that for sure,” Rogers presses. “You can’t deny that you listen to her while ignoring everyone else, even when we’re sayin’ the same thing.”

“I told you,” Barnes says, pushing back from the footstool and getting in Steve’s face. “I told you that she keeps the red out.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, looking up from your seat on the couch. “Whichever it is, it’s okay.  It could be that Natasha and Steve are right, or that you’re right, or that I’m right and something of me was left behind when Ana pulled me out of your head.  Maybe it’s all three.  Maybe it’s something we haven’t considered.  What does the reason matter? I’m here, aren’t I?”

Barnes gapes at you, slowly stepping back out of Steve’s personal space. “It matters,” he says quietly. “To me.”

“Do I look like I’m going anywhere?” you ask, motioning for him to sit next to you on the couch.  He hangs his head a bit and slowly settles at the very edge of the cushion, careful to maintain several inches of space between you.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve offers. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Barnes shrugs. “It’s a solid theory,” he rasps. “Happens to be wrong, but I can’t deny it makes a certain kind of sense.”

The three of you sit there like that for almost a quarter of an hour before you drum up the courage to speak again.

“You were upstairs for a while,” you say to Steve. “Anything worth sharing come up? Aside from Barnes not being evicted, of course.”

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Rogers says, leaning forward and bracing his arms against his knees.  “Something is going on with your arm, Bucky.”

“No shit.”

“And JARVIS has been keeping track of every anomaly related to it since you stepped foot inside the Tower.  The time between incidents is getting shorter every day.  Tony thinks that your arm wasn’t meant to be used on a daily basis or for long periods of time.  It was designed and calibrated for combat during missions, and none of those stretched beyond a few days. A week, at most.”

Barnes’ knee begins to bounce and he ducks his head lower, both hands pressed against his forehead, partially covering his eyes like a visor.  You scoot closer so that your shoulders are touching.

“Keep talkin’,” he manages, and you catch a sliver of blue-grey iris from between his fingers as he peeks over at you.

“It’s wearing out.  The internal mechanisms are breaking down without maintenance in addition to the fact that they probably weren’t designed for day-to-day use in the first place.  You’ve been in some major fights since you last went under, too.”

“Don’t— _nngh._ Don’t flatter yourself, Rogers.”

“We gotta take a look at it, Buck. You have to let Stark figure out what’s going on. He’s pretty sure it has to come off completely, but first we need address the elephant in the room.”

“Not me this time,” you whisper to Barnes, nudging his shoulder with your own. “The elephant, that is.”

His answering smirk is weak and brief, but it’s real.

“The killswitch you told us about in Brooklyn,” Steve continues. “If it goes off—”

“People will get hurt,” Barnes finishes, nodding.

“You. You will get hurt,” Rogers corrects. “We worried about _you_ , ya meatball.”

Barnes leans all the way forward, bending himself nearly in half and crosses both arms over the back of his head.

“Hey, no,” you shush, gentling your hand along the arch of his spine. “This isn’t going to be like before.”

He shudders, full-bodied, and Steve moves down on the couch, buttressing his friend on the other side.

“Don’t let me feel it,” Barnes pants. “When he cuts it off, don’t—”

“Jesus, Bucky, that’s not how this is gonna go,” Steve says, wrapping his arm over Barnes’ back and tugging him closer. “Stark’s gonna do it the right way, not like they did. You think I’d let him touch you if I suspected otherwise?”

“W-when?”

“Tomorrow, ideally.  Depends on how you feel and on whether or not Dr. Banner and his team gives this the green light.”

“You’ll stay?” Barnes asks, turning his head to look at you through the dark curtain of his hair.

“Of course,” you assure him.  “I’ll be here through the entire procedure.  Classes start late on Monday, so I don’t have to leave until that morning. And—” you hesitate, briefly questioning just how much of your time you want to commit to this.

“And?” Barnes prompts.

“And we’re getting close to end-of-term.  A lot of the kids board on campus over the summer, but aside from some remedial tutoring and the occasional bit of team business, I can be here as often as you like.”

“No you can’t,” he sighs, sitting up a bit.

“Why not?”

“Because I’d want you here all the time.”

 

* * *

 

Barnes remains quiet and introspective for a long time after, almost entirely unresponsive as you and Steve try to coax out an opinion on what movie to watch.

You’re scrolling through their playlist history, slightly disturbed by the sheer volume of cartoons and 1950s Westerns, before finally finding what you’d been looking for with the aid of the Search function.

"Looks weird," Steve says, cheeks a bit pink. You get the feeling that most modern movies make him uncomfortable, what with all the references he has no context for, the special effects, the booming soundtracks, the sex. “What’s it about?”

“Mostly Milla Jovovich being a total BAMF.”

“I understood some of those words,” he nods, sitting back on the couch, but not before shooting Barnes another worried look.

“Hey,” you prod, tugging on Barnes’ good shoulder.  He allows himself to be re-positioned on the couch, eventually settling against you with a dazed, thoroughly exhausted look on his face.  “It’s all right if you fall asleep.”

He nods and lets his eyes drift shut.  Steve grabs a very soft looking, cream-colored afghan from a nearby settee and drapes it over his friend, making sure his bare feet are covered as well.

“You ready for this, Rogers?” you ask as the title screen for  _The Fifth Element_ queues up.

“Nope,” he says. “But that’s kinda been the story of my life, so…”

Barnes snorts, the warm puff of air raising goosebumps on your neck.

“Thought you were sleepin’, jerk,” Steve grumbles.

“With you doin’ all that jaw-jackin’? Not likely. Shaddap and watch the movie, punk.”

So you do, all three of you, from start to finish, and then a second time because they both love it.

You always did have good taste. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short (3600 words, boo), but I mostly needed to get the *next* scene set up and it took me 4 or 5 tries before I got the tempo and dialogue right. All kinds of (ultimately silly) things were originally planned for this, but as awesome as they seemed in my head, they were beyond dumb on paper.
> 
> Hopefully this is satisfying, despite its brevity. 
> 
> In other news, I can't believe the love and support you guys have continued to show for this story. The stats may not be huge compared to other fics and writers, but it's so much more than I ever expected. Thank you! You've all made this so rewarding. I'm just happy to share my sandbox. The fact that anyone else wants to jump in and play with me is phenomenal. <3


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker 

* * *

 

“This is highly irregular,” the petite Asian woman sitting across from you at the conference table observes, swiping through some of the medical reports that JARVIS has prepared for review. “The patient is too unstable to qualify as a surgical candidate.”

She pauses and looks around the table, making eye contact with each person gathered to consult on Barnes’ case. “I cannot recommend any further medical action until he is—”

“Dr. Cho,” Banner interrupts, waving a hand and dismissing the semi-transparent graphs floating in front of his face. “We know he’s unstable, but his condition is deteriorating regardless of any stabilizing measures we take. Surgery is the only viable way to slow—to hopefully _stop_ —that downward trajectory.”

“JARVIS,” Tony drawls, swiveling in his chair at the head of the table. “Bring up the charts again.”

“Yes, Sir,” the AI replies, and a series of animated graphs flicker to life in the center of the table.  JARVIS explains what each marker represents; electrical surges, distinct mood swings, uncontrolled movements, epileptic episodes, altered speech patterns, and moments of extreme paranoia, aggression, or fear.  The X-axis only spreads over the course of the week, but stretched out long enough, you can see how each point groups around the same time, and that the distance between activity clusters is growing shorter and shorter.

“I knew it was bad,” you breathe, leaning forward to manipulate the projection, blowing out the proportions to see more the detailed information listed alongside each point. “But not this bad.”

“Sergeant Barnes is quite adept at hiding his symptoms,” JARVIS intones. “However, his vital signs still respond as expected during each event.  I was tasked with tracking this data the moment he arrived at the Tower.”

“And you expect these symptoms to vanish once the prosthesis is removed?” Dr. Cho asks, clearly skeptical. “Do we consider HYDRA capable of designing a device that would affect someone like this? According to your own files, it was grafted on in the forties.”

“As to your first question; no, probably not. He’ll need a solid pain management program, as well as psychological support for the foreseeable future, physical therapy, and reconstructive surgery.  As to the second; Dr. Zola was one of the most brilliant minds of his generation,” Banner says. “Brilliant and sadistic.”

“Howard never trusted him,” Tony chimes in. “Project Paperclip seemed like too much of a compromise, too good a deal for the bad guys. He went ballistic when that Swedish fish dropped off the grid.  Almost got himself kicked out of the SSR.”

“Some of the reports in that file also show a timeline of upgrades and retrofits performed long after the initial procedure. After each freeze and defrost cycle it was noted that the effectiveness of the mind wipes seemed to decrease dramatically,” you add. “Towards the end, they often had a matter of days before Barnes would start to remember things.”

“An effect of the serum?”

“Possibly. He heals much faster than an un-augmented human, so perhaps over the years his body simply adapted to the damage being done to it, learning how to repair itself more efficiently,” you suggest.

“Look, most of this is going to be done with wrenches and bolt-cutters,” Tony sighs, dismissing all of JARVIS’ holograms.  “Not literally,” he huffs, catching the horrified look you’ve shot him. “We need a qualified physician standing by to consult and supervise, which is where you come in, Doc.”

“As I said—” Dr. Cho starts, and you can tell by her tone that she’s going to decline again.

“Please,” you interrupt. “He’s accepted the risks—we all have—but if it doesn’t come off, it'll kill him.”

She sighs and studies you for a long time.

“You’re not a doctor, or an Avenger,” she finally says. “Why are you here, exactly?”

“She’s the one who pulled him out of his own head,” Tony answers. “And when he goes full T-1000 and rips my lab apart, she’s the only one he listens to, which must really burn Cap up. Bet that’s not how he saw this going at all.”

You stare Stark down and let him see the flash in your eyes.

“Oh c’mon, you gotta admit, it’s a little _Brokeback_ between those two.”

“You’re awful,” you tell him, looking away.

“That’s not how you pronounce hilarious.”

“Our young friend does have a medical background,” Banner cuts in, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Pre-med at Northwestern, followed by four years at Johns Hopkins for medical school.  So there’s a shared professional vocabulary at the very least.” He knits his fingers together and inclines his head in your direction. “I spoke with your colleague in Westchester—Dr. McCoy? He accepted a few blood samples and sent back a chemical and metabolic spectrum analysis that was very useful in getting a better idea of how to anesthetize Sergeant Barnes more effectively. He spoke highly of you.”

“Hank is a brilliant scientist and a better friend than I deserve,” you concede. “He was quite eager to help.”

“Dr. McCoy is your mentor?” Dr. Cho asks, jaw slack. “No one has seen him in years—”

“He’s been ill, but he never stopped working,” you deflect. “His guidance, along with that of Dr. Grey, Dr. MacTaggert, and Professor Xavier—”

“Charles Xavier?” she asks, sitting up in her chair as if she’s been electrocuted. “ _The_ Charles Xavier?”

“The only one I know of,” you shrug, feeling a bit guilty for resorting to name-dropping in order to get what you want. _Manipulative little shit_ , indeed.

“Who are you?” she asks, leaning over the table and practically salivating with curiosity.

“Trust me, Doc,” Tony sighs. “You really don’t want to ask her that.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” you call softly, slipping into Barnes’ bedroom. He’s curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed, all of the blankets stripped from the mattress and gathered around him like a nest.

“Time already?” he asks, looking at you from the corners of his eyes.

“Almost,” you nod. “Steve said you were sleeping.”

He snorts and sits up against the footboard, dropping his head back against it. “Steve sees what he wants to see.”

“He worries,” you offer as explanation, taking a seat on the corner of the bare mattress. “Dr. Cho and Dr. Banner are working with the anesthesiologist to get everything ready.  Stark wanted me to ask if you thought another scan of your arm might be possible.”

Barnes curls his fist and pulls his mechanical arm closer against his chest. “I hate it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “What’s he need to see inside it for? Just cut the fucking thing off—”

“You know that’s not what's going to happen, James,” you tell him, reaching down and squeezing his metal shoulder, unsure of just how much he can feel through the plates. “The more information he has going in, the faster we can get this over with.  No one’s done a procedure like this since—”

“Since HYDRA put it on, this version anyway. You know I was awake when they did it the first time? Wasn't much left of the real thing. I remember how they cut through the bone with an electric saw.  I swear I can still smell the stink from the friction.”

You duck your head and vehemently deny the sting in your eyes, the clutch of your throat as you try to swallow. “I—” you cough, banishing the tremor in your voice—“I have this.” You show him the small device that will allow JARVIS to map the arm and create a 3D model for Tony to study. “It won’t hurt. Just a little flashing light and then we’re done. With this part, at least.”

He pushes himself to his feet, kicking the blankets away and takes a seat next to you on the bed. “What do you need me to do?” he asks.

“Just hold your arm out, straight as you can, and stay still for a few seconds,” you answer. “JARVIS?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Data incoming,” you tell the AI. “Ready?”

“Always, madam. Please proceed.”

You press a button, and several beams of bright green light project from one end of the scanner like a spider web.  They lock onto the arm and begin to graph the exterior.  A moment later, the beams switch to red and repeat the scan.  Finally, they flicker to blue and cycle through the process one last time.

“Digital recreation complete.  Your cooperation is appreciated, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Uh, you’re welcome,” he answers, glancing up at the ceiling much the same way you do when conversing with Tony's virtual assistant.

“See? That wasn’t so bad,” you tell him, pocketing the scanner.  “Anything you want to talk about regarding the procedure?”

“A million things,” he breathes. “But I don’t think knowing more is gonna help me get through it. Ignorance is bliss, y’know?”

“Sometimes.”

“Will I feel it?”

“We’re going to have you as numb as possible,” you tell him. “But there are very real limits to the stresses your heart and brain can take. I wish we could put you under, but the analysis we received from your blood samples indicate doing so is too risky. The amount of propofol we'd need to apply in order to keep you unconscious throughout the procedure could easily kill you, even with the serum countering the effects. There are also significant traces of other drugs still in your system that could have fatal interactions with any kind of general anesthetic. The records that Agent Romanoff provided include detailed lists of the pharmacologicals that HYDRA regularly used: Benzodiazepines to manage anxiety, dexmedetomidine hydrochloride to keep you sedated, paracetamol for pain management, and quetiapine. That's an anti-psychotic."

"Good to know they cared," he snorts, looking away.

"Some of the stomach-sickness you've been experiencing is probably a symptom of chemical withdrawal, only we couldn't see it before because—"

"Because I'm such a goddamn mess."

"I'm sorry. I can’t guarantee you won’t feel anything, but we’ll minimize your pain as much as we can without putting your life at risk.”

He nods and chews on his bottom lip, brow furrowed. “What are the—the steps?”

“Identifying and removing the killswitch is our priority as it poses the most immediate threat to your life.  Stark will have a better idea of what we’re dealing with once he reviews the scan we just provided.”

“Whatever it does, it’ll be painful,” he says, hunching in on himself. “That’s what they’d go with. One last punishment for disobeying or failing to be useful.”

“Regardless, we’ll deal with it and you’ll be fine,” you assure him. “Once it's neutralized, Stark will make his final analysis on how best to remove the arm.  Right now, he believes he should be able to do that without too much difficulty based on what we know about the upgrades HYDRA performed over the years.”

“I know,” he says, nostrils flaring and his eyes going a bit wide. “I remember.”

“How much of your time with them has come back?”

He looks sidelong at you and then quickly away when you meet his gaze. “Too much.”

“You can talk to me,” you tell him, reaching out and touching the middle of his back with the pads of your fingers. “If you want. About anything. I understand you don’t like the psychologist Stark found for you—”

“You don’t need any of this shit in your head,” he argues. “And I can deal with it on my own.”

“And by ‘deal with it,’ you mean, what? Ignore it, pretend it doesn’t bother you, put on an act so that people leave you alone?”

“Ideally.”

“That’s stupid, Barnes,” you scold. “Don’t let the ignorance your generation had for psychology tamper with your recovery. ‘Get over it,’ isn’t an effective coping strategy.”

“That’s the problem with your generation,” he snaps. “You people talk and talk and _talk_ about every goddamn thing and tell yourselves it gets better, but it only makes people feel worse.”

“Your brain is psychologically septic, Barnes. Carry on with your make believe, but in the end, you’ll be the one left holding the bag when it all falls apart.”

“You can be a real bitch sometimes, you know that?”

“I’m told it’s one of the more charming aspects of my personality.  Fume all you want. The offer still stands; if you want to talk, you know how to find me.”

You stand up from the bed and head towards the door.

“Where are you going?” he asks, suddenly fearful. The look in his eyes when you turn to answer causes the harsh words dancing on your tongue to shrivel and die.

“I need to scrub up,” you tell him. “Someone should be by shortly to collect you.”

He nods once and the slides back down onto the floor, gathering up his blankets and burying himself in their warmth.

“Barnes…”

Pale blue eyes peer out at you, half-hidden behind his hair.

“It’s going to be okay.”

He doesn’t answer, instead looking away towards the windows and the bright sky beyond the glass.

 

* * *

 

“Tell me this is going to work,” Steve demands, pacing in the waiting area just outside the surgical theatre. He’s there with Natasha and Sam, both of whom hang back out of immediate earshot.

“It’s a good plan,” you tell him instead. “And we don’t really have a choice.  JARVIS estimates complete neurological failure by Tuesday at the latest. That won't just affect his brain function, it'll have a cascading effect on his organs; heart, liver, lungs. He'll die.”

“We still need to be sure this is going to work,” the super soldier insists, hands planted on his hips. “We just got him back, I can’t—”

“Steve,” you cut him off. “We have some of the best scientific and medical minds consulting on this.  I am confident that everything will go smoothly, and that by the end of the day Barnes will be in a recovery room, minus one very bothersome and life-threatening cybernetic arm.  But there are no guarantees. I won’t make a promise I can’t keep, and I won’t lie to you just to spare your feelings.”

“Hey,” Tony barks, popping his head out of the prep room, already dressed in a pale yellow surgical gown. “That’s enough chit chat out of you. Red October won’t let the actual doctors stick him with a needle until you’re there to hold his hand. So get your ass in gear and scrub up.”

“Right,” you answer, patting Steve apologetically on the arm. “I’ll have one of the nurses come out every fifteen minutes or so to keep you updated.”

“Talk him through what they’re doing,” Natasha suggests, apparently possessing much better hearing than you’d previously assumed. “It might help. Did for me after Clint brought me in.”

“He stayed with you?”

She nods and fingers the charm—an arrow?—on the chain around her neck.

“S.H.I.E.L.D.’s doctors tried to undo some of the procedures implemented by the Red Room program.  It was meant as a gesture, I guess. Didn’t always take, but I appreciated the effort.”

You wrinkle your brow at the vagaries in her confession and wonder if that’s a byproduct of being a spy, or a reluctance to talk about something personal and probably painful. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you tell her.

“We’ll be out here if you need us,” Wilson adds, sauntering forward, a cup of steaming coffee clutched in his hands. “You tell him that, okay? It’ll mean something to know that there are people waiting for him on the other side of this.”

“I will.”

“Don’t make me stop this car,” Tony calls from behind the door.

Natasha leads Steve back to one of the chairs in the waiting room, and Sam presses the cup of coffee into his hands.

“Go,” Steve says, staring at his lap.  “We’ll see you in a few hours.”

 

* * *

 

“Doing okay so far?” you ask, your voice muffled behind the surgical mask covering your mouth and nose.

Barnes looks up at you from the table, sedated and bare from the waist up, his bionic arm stretched out on a cradle that allows Stark as much access to it as possible. A custom-designed pneumatic tourniquet encircles most of his shoulder, covering the seam between metal and flesh. The pressure applied by the device has stopped the flow of blood to what remains of the organic limb and a powerful regional anesthetic solution is flooding the nerves and muscles of his shoulder with pain blockers intravenously. 

“Define okay,” he slurs, blinking slowly and licking his lips. “Best I’ve felt in years, doll.”

“Already up to pet names,” Tony chuckles, carefully arranging all of his tools on the tray set within easy reach. “Next thing you know, you two will be—how did they say it in your day, Sergeant? Making time? Making time behind the woodshed.”

“We don’t have a woodshed, Sir,” JARVIS chimes in.

“It was a joke, buddy,” Stark sighs, adjusting his mask. “My comedic genius remains unappreciated in my time.”

“Nah,” Barnes shakes his head slowly from side-to-side. “She’s not interested. Fuckin’… fuckin’ look at me.”

“Stop antagonizing him,” you hiss at Tony, pressing against Barnes’ chest as he—once again—tries to sit up.

“We are on a tight schedule, here,” Banner reminds everyone, standing next to the anesthesiologist, Dr. Sasooli, and keeping an eye on the monitors tracking Barnes’ vitals. Dr. Cho is watching the entire procedure from an elevated observation deck, speaking with Banner and Sasooli directly through their respective earpieces. “This push should last a half hour at the outset, and we can’t dose him indefinitely.”

“I concur,” Dr. Sasooli nods, loosening the tourniquet and allowing blood to circulate again. "Our upper limit is three doses. More than that and we will not be able to safely administer the spinal block for the prosthetic removal. I will not risk his heart. Please, Mr. Stark, get to work.”

“You all know that I’m the person who signs your paychecks, right?” Tony asks, selecting a narrow tool from his tray.

“In this room, you are subject to our professional discretion,” Dr. Sasooli states, leaving no room for argument.  

“Copy that, kemosabe.”

“I am Pakistani,” Sasooli scowls. “That word was bastardized from the original Ojibwe by the white producers of _The Lone Ranger_ radio program.”

“I hate all of you,” Stark sighs, opening a panel on Barnes’ arm that you hadn’t noticed before.

“Tony is looking for the killswitch,” you tell the thoroughly drugged man, remembering Natasha’s suggestion. “The scan we did earlier helped pinpoint its location.”

“It’s buried beneath a ton of microprocessors and gears,” Tony complains, grabbing another tool.  “Gonna start clipping and clearing a path.”

“Deep breath,” you tell Barnes, squeezing his flesh hand and standing a bit closer. He nods and starts to turn to look at what Stark is doing, but you redirect his attention with a gentle tug. “Look at me. Talk to me.”

“What about?” he gasps, wincing as Tony snaps something free and drops it in a container being held out by one of the nurses.

“Anything. Whatever you want.”

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

Banner makes a noise behind you and Dr. Sasooli coughs into his hand, muttering to himself in a language you don’t recognize.

“You said whatever he wanted,” Tony reminds you, and you could just _hit him_ , only you really need him to be conscious for the next few hours.

“Sorry,” Barnes mumbles. “Dames used t’like hearin' that from me. When I wasn't so...so—” he seizes up as Tony pulls at something that resembles a jointed, metal tube.

“Would it have killed them to remove this garbage as they replaced it with better components?” he asks, snapping his fingers at the nearest nurse and snatching the larger set of surgical pliers he passes forward.

“Take it easy, Tony,” you warn, motioning for him to back off as Barnes tries to roll away from him, pressing his head into your stomach. “I think we need another push. Did you feel that?”

He nods against you and shudders, panting and trying to move his arm away from the source of the pain, but instead finding it disabled and unresponsive.

Dr. Sasooli steps forward and re-inflates the tourniquet, then administers another round of lidocaine solution into the intravenous infusion line. He watches his computer screen, making sure the toxicity levels of the narcotic drop to acceptable levels as Barnes' body absorbs them before allowing the blood to rush back into the limb remnants and surrounding area. He records everything on his terminal with a few deft flicks of his fingers. “That was far ahead of schedule,” he notes, frowning.

“Bite guard,” Barnes groans, settling back against the table. “Need a—a bite guard.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, already accepting the thick rubber insert from the nurse.

“Yeah,” he says, flexing his flesh-and-blood fingers around your own. “Give it.”

“You have to tell me if you need us to stop, though,” you tell him. “How do we work that out with the bite guard in?”

“Way ahead of you,” Stark announces, grabbing a small, textured cylinder from his tray and tossing it to you. It’s no bigger or thicker than a roll of quarters. “Panic button,” he says. “He presses it and we’ll know. I made it really loud.”

“Several decibels above my recommendation,” JARVIS notes. “But Mr. Stark has never been fond of half-measures.”

You nod and slip the cylinder into Barnes’ hand, closing his fist around it. “Leave your thumb on the trigger,” you instruct. “And do not try to tough this out. We can’t have you slip—”

“I know,” he pants, pupils constricting as the second push of painkillers finally take effect. “Keep going. I’m good.”

You offer the bite guard and he accepts it; the entire process reminding you far too much of what you’d witnessed inside his memory of that last wipe. The bank vault and the chair, the smell of burnt skin and the sound of the soldier screaming himself hoarse.

“Stark?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grouses, continuing to break off pieces of the internal workings of Barnes’ cybernetic arm. “I’m working as fast as I can without triggering this thing.”

“What is it?” you ask, pressing a soft cloth to Barnes’ forehead, soaking up the sweat that has accumulated there.

“Y’know those little electrical surges we tracked on JARVIS’ chart?” Tony asks, adjusting his overhead light to better illuminate the expanding cavity in Barnes’ arm. 

“They were causing the seizures,” Banner continues, turning one of his monitors around so you can see it from the front. “This—” he brings up a schematic of a long tube attached to several pronged wheels, multiple springs and gears spaced between them, and four smooth rings that seem to move around the tube in small, delicate movements—“Is the cause, and it’s what will kill him if we don't get rid of it.”

“It’s a battery,” Tony explains. “Sort of. Not too dissimilar from what you might find inside a really fancy kinetic-movement watch, only much more sophisticated, and it can store a lot more energy. There are swiveling, semi-circular weights here,” he pauses and points them out on Bruce's screen, "and here. They're essentially rotors. They move back and forth as he moves, particularly when he moves his arm. The rotors are connected to a ratcheting mechanism here—" 

“And that powers a small generator, which stores energy in a capacitor and in the battery," Bruce continues, motioning for Tony to get back to work. "When the battery reaches it's power limit, a release is triggered. First in small intervals, like a warning, but they keep escalating until a fatal discharge occurs. Basically, HYDRA found a way to make their prize assassin hold a knife to his own throat."

“I’m pretty sure HYDRA’s maintenance techs would swap it out for an empty when he came in for service,” Tony scowls, still digging and prying pieces loose. “But they never let him out for long anyway, so there probably wasn't a real risk of maxing out so long as he was behaving himself. If he ever managed to break away though? A few weeks of freedom and this thing would have enough of a charge to make that a non-issue. I bet they made sure he knew it, too."

“He's been on the run for months,” you remind him, trying very hard not to hyperventilate. You have to remain calm, for Barnes.

“And from your own account, he spent a lot of that time in a drunken stupor. Probably saved his life, or at least bought a temporary reprieve. Less movement, less energy generated."

Barnes squeezes his eyes shut and breathes heavily through his nose. You can see the muscle of his jaw popping against his skin as he bites down.

“Why is he still feeling this?” you ask, looking behind you at Sasooli and then up to the windowed observation area where Dr. Cho is standing vigil.

“He’s not feeling all of it,” Sasooli says, visibly paling as he checks the monitors. “Or even most of it. Without the drugs we’ve supplied, he’d probably be in cardiac arrest from the sensory overload and stress.”

“They did this on purpose,” Tony sneers, trading in his tools for what looks like a pair of miniaturized jumper cables. “They designed this entire thing to be damn near impossible to disassemble without their super-secret instruction manual. The engineering is annoyingly impressive, but I don’t know how they got the entire thing off without—”

“I think,” you swallow, forcing back the bile rising from your stomach. “I think they just cut most of it off, started over with whatever was left.”

_“What?”_

“That’s what he assumed you would do,” you continue, then glance down at Barnes. “Am I right?”

He manages a shallow nod and then screams around the guard.

“Get it out,” you demand, putting most of your weight against Barnes’ chest as he thrashes.

“Love to, but yanking it would set it off and I'm pretty sure Cap will break my face if I kill his best friend. J?” Tony asks, summoning one of his virtual projections. “Drain the capacitor and the battery on my mark, fast as you can without risking a detonation event.”

"What the hell is a  _detonation_ _event?!"_

“Yes, Sir," JARVIS replies, ignoring you.

“Step back,” Tony says, pushing away from the table and holding his hands up.

You do as instructed, hating the way Barnes trembles when you break contact.

“Three, two, one, mark!”

You hear a high-pitched, electronic tone build, small tendrils of smoke rising from where Tony’s cables are attached to Barnes’ arm. A crackle of electricity splits the air and Barnes’ arm jerks.  He screams again, reaching for you, but Dr. Sasooli holds you back.

“Are we clear, Mr. Stark?” he asks, motioning to the cables.

“JARVIS?”

“The device has been drained and disabled, Sir.”

You do your best to calm Barnes down as Tony extracts the dead battery, its casing and component parts. He carefully hands everything off to another nurse and quietly tells her to get it down to Lab D for disposal.  She places the device into a container filled with a thick gel, suspending it so that it can’t be dropped or bumped, and wheels everything out of the operating room.

“Shhh,” you soothe, wiping the sweat dripping from Barnes’ brow. “First step is over now, we got it out. You did so well, Sergeant. Shhh. I’ve got you.”

“His vital signs are becoming erratic,” Sasooli announces. “Dr. Cho recommends we delay the amputation until he is better stabilized.”

Barnes shakes his head and presses his knuckles against your shoulder, thumping the joint.

“We keep going,” you counter, nodding to him so he knows you understand. “He wants to finish this.”

“I’m sorry, but neither you nor Sergeant Barnes is qualified to—“

“The man says we finish, _then we finish,”_ Tony interrupts, resetting his tools and accepting a cup of water from the male nurse.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, adjusting Barnes’ grip on the panic button.  He’s still breathing hard, face pale, and eyelids fluttering.

“We should start the last push,” Banner suggests. “And apply the spinal block. This next part is going to be hard on him.  There’s no way to get around the fact that the prosthetic's motor and sensory feedback systems are tied into the brachial plexus and what's left of the musculocutaneous nerve on that side.”

You slide your left arm under Barnes’ shoulders and prop him up a bit, letting your other hand press against his jaw to keep his head steady.

“Barnes, look at me.”

His eyes drag open.

“This is going to be bad,” you tell him, leaning down until your foreheads touch. “Just hold on to me, and we’ll get through it, okay?”

He nods, turning slightly towards you.

“Final push,” Sasooli announces, and injects the last round of lidocaine. 

You count the minutes until some of the tension ebbs from Barnes’ frame, then with Banner's help, tilt him further toward you so his spine is exposed to the room.  Dr. Sasooli steps around the table and with a long, fine needle, sends a mixture of anesthetic and epinephrine into the space between the membrane of his spinal chord and the innermost layer of the membrane itself.

“Better?” you ask several minutes later, and he nods again, whimpering around the guard.

“Stay with me,” you tell him, squeezing his arm and helping him resume his prone position. “Don’t go away.”

“Brace yourselves,” Tony warns, prying open another panel just under the shoulder joint.

“Blood pressure is dropping,” Sasooli observes. “His pulmonary rate is erratic.”

“With me,” you croon, taking a deep breath in, trying to ignore the sounds of metal grinding against metal as Tony begins dismantling the arm’s internal mounting. Barnes tries to keep pace, but eventually he’s overwhelmed, his jaw straining against the guard as he chokes back another scream.

“Almost there,” Stark grunts, bracing one foot against the table for more leverage. “Just need to—”

Barnes arches off the table, his entire body convulsing as he cries out—ragged, and more animal than man.  He drops the panic button and it rolls under the table where you can’t reach it unless you let go of him.

“We must stop!” Sasooli is shouting. “His heart—he can’t—I must insist!”

Even Dr. Cho is protesting, demanding you all cease the operation immediately through the intercom, voice booming.

“Tony—” you start, though the words meant to follow are lost as a broad hand presses against your face, thumb brushing along the arch of your cheekbone.  You glance down, terrified by the desperate, panicked look in Barnes’ eyes. You cover his hand with your own, watch as he stifles a sob, the bite guard torn to shreds between his teeth.

“Got it!” Stark crows, as the horrible metal arm finally drops free from Barnes’ body.

One of the remaining nurses quickly steps forward and drapes a thin sheet over the severed appendage, moving it off the table where it can’t be seen.

“I’m coming down there,” Dr. Cho says into the intercom, furious. “Recovery team, get the patient stabilized and into his assigned room.  Stark, Banner, and Sasooli… we need to talk, _now.”_

“You stay with Comrade Popsicle,” Stark tells you, unceremoniously dropping the bolt cutters onto the floor. “I’ll make sure Steve and company know which room they take him to.”

“Tony,” you start, grabbing the billionaire before he can slip away to be berated by a very angry, world-famous geneticist and physician. “Thank you.”

He just shrugs and taps the centerline of his chest. “I know what it’s like to have something put in you that you didn’t ask for. I had to almost die a whole bunch of times before I worked up the courage to take care of it.  Figured he deserved to make the same choice and have that choice respected.”

You have no idea what he’s talking about, but you accept the explanation anyway.

“Go take care of your boyfriend, Animal House,” he says, steering you back toward the table. “Did you see what I did there? It's a movie that someone your age probably hasn't watched, but _should_ , and then also 'Animal' because of, y’know, _stuff_ , and 'House' like Hugh Laurie's spin on Sherlock Holmes, because you're a doctor. Kind of.”

You stare blankly at him.

Stark tilts his head to the side and sighs, “It was layered.”

“I think if you have to explain the joke—” JARVIS starts, but Tony throws his hands up and stalks out of the room, threatening to reprogram his AI to be more like Friday, whoever or whatever that is.

You return to the operating table, where the aforementioned recovery team is preparing to move Barnes onto a gurney.

You take up his remaining hand and give it a tentative squeeze.  He spits out the remnants of the bite guard and cracks his eyes open.

“Hey…” you offer lamely.

“It’s gone?” he croaks. “I can—I can still feel it.”

“Phantom limb. It'll pass,” you tell him. “And you’ll have a new, custom-designed prosthetic to replace it soon enough. Stark has all kinds of plans. You won’t feel the ghost of it for long, I promise.”

He pulls your hand up to his face and presses dry, cracked lips to your skin.

“Made it,” he shivers, offering a weak smile. “Beat ‘em.”

“You did,” you agree, leaning against the table. 

He lets out a long, unsteady breath and closes his eyes again. “Tired,” he mumbles.

“Sleep,” you tell him as the recovery team transfers him to the gurney and covers him with several thermal blankets.  You manage to keep your hand intertwined with his, walking alongside as he’s wheeled out of the surgical theatre. “I’ll be there when you wake up.”

 

* * *

 

Many hours later, you’re roused by the sound of Rogers’ gentle snoring. He’s on the opposite side of Barnes’ bed, having finally dropped off after vehemently refusing to leave the room and get some rest in his own quarters. You groan and try to adjust your lean-to position against the wall, never quite finding a configuration that doesn’t leave some joint or muscle aching.

You switch off the pain receptors in your shoulder and back, sighing as you get comfortable again.

A quiet rattle catches your attention.

It’s Barnes.

“You’re awake?” you whisper, unable to see his eyes with his head turned away from you.

He nods, and the rattling sound grows louder.  He’s shaking, ever-so-slightly, and starts reaching for the socket where his bionic arm had been mounted, his fingers grabbing at empty air.

“It’s gone, Barnes,” you reassure him, and he turns his head to look at you in the near-dark of the room.

“Please,” he whispers back, licking his lips to soothe the split skin.

“What? What do you want?” you ask, taking his remaining hand in yours, running your thumb over his knuckles.

He tugs your hand, surprisingly strong, pulling you closer to the bed.

“I know I shouldn’t ask, but—”

You offer a soft smile and nod, understanding.

“Just this once,” he says. “It hurts.”

You motion for him to scoot over, to make room, before slipping into place next to him.  He rests his head against yours, and lets out a long, shuddering breath.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles. “You don’t want—”

“Would I be up here if I _didn’t want?”_ you ask.

“Not what I want,” he counters, and you can feel where his mouth moves against your hair. “I forgot how to want, until you.”

“Barnes—”

“I know,” he sighs. “I know I can’t. You won’t, and it’s okay. I’ve taken more than I deserve already. Just for a little while, though? Until Steve wakes up, then you can go. I won’t stop you.”

“I’ll come back,” you tell him, unable to stop the wetness pooling in the corners of your eyes. “I wish it were different, that I were different. But it’s not, I’m not.  This would never work, Barnes.”

He pulls you closer, tucking your head entirely beneath his chin; big spoon to your little. “It could,” he says. “I’ll wait. Long as it takes, I’ll wait for you.”

And despite your better judgment, you believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to incorporate some things from the various films that weren't necessarily addressed clearly in the MCU (Natasha's necklace, the Red Room program, Dr. Cho suddenly showing up all chummy with Tony in AoU, etc). More cameos and references to come, I promise.
> 
> Woo, angst! 
> 
> I'll have more thoughts later. Right now, my brain is beautifully blank and devoid of Bucky-centric musings. :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter discusses (non-sexual) child and domestic abuse. Please DO NOT CONTINUE READING if this subject matter is a trigger for you. I'll provide a summary at the end so anyone who doesn't want to read the details will still have a (more sanitized) idea of what was discussed.

* * *

 "Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance.

-Richard von Wiezsaecker 

* * *

 

You leave the Tower first thing in the morning, once more promising Barnes that you’ll be back after the school week is over.  He doesn’t mention the conversation in the recovery room (or how he’d fallen asleep curled against you, good arm wrapped around your middle, nose buried in your hair), and you simultaneously dread and hope that he might have forgotten it entirely. He’d been drugged out of his gourd, after all, so chances are the entire thing has been lost to the ether.

Probably for the best.

Steve does the hugging thing again, thanking you about a million times before finally setting you down (does he realize how tall he is?) and escorting you to the building’s lobby. Sam is waiting for you outside the main doors, whistling low at the Ducati as an attendant wheels it out from the underground garage.

“Thing of beauty,” he compliments, circling the bike with an appreciative look in his eye. “How much she set you back? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“She was a gift,” you smile, tugging your helmet down over your ears. “I have generous benefactors.”

“I’ll say,” he laughs. “They looking to adopt any more strays? I can break out the puppy dog eyes if I gotta.”

“I think you might be a bit too old to matriculate,” you drawl, sliding your visor up so you can look at him properly.

“Ouch,” he chuckles, hand over heart as if you’d wounded him. He takes a step towards you and runs a hand over the back of his head. “So I'm not sure if I'd be crossing a line even asking, but I've been wondering if I could take you out for drinks next weekend. If you can sneak away from the Wonder Twins, that is.”

“I would love that, Sam, really—"

“This is the ‘but’ part,” he says, looking down with a smirk and jamming his hands in the pockets of his (perfectly ass-hugging) jeans. “Right?”

“But it would be as friends. I don’t really date, if that’s what you were angling for.”

“I can work with that,” he smiles, the mischief returning to his eyes. “Not-dating.”

“Pervert,” you scold, flipping the visor down and starting the Ducati’s engine. “You pick the place, but I pick the drinks. We’ll swap traumatic life stories.”

“What makes you think I have a traumatic life story?” he asks, shaking his head as he laughs.

“You’re a superhero, aren’t you?”

“Captain America is a superhero. I’m just a guy with a bunch of science strapped to his back,” he answers, strolling out into the street and actually stopping traffic with nothing but natural swagger and sheer force of will, waving for you to cut in.

“You’re a superhero, Wilson. Accept it,” you call back, zipping out into the path he’s cleared, waving briefly as you go.

* * *

Once you get home, Ana spends about an hour berating you for not texting her more often. You apologize profusely, and then recount the entire ordeal in as much detail as you can while also trying to prevent any of it from turning into pure nightmare fuel.

“But he’s okay now, right?” she asks, bouncing on the edge of your bed.

“He’ll get there,” you tell her, tossing your pack into the closet, resigned to deal with it later.

“How’s this gonna work? With you being here and him there?”

“Not sure,” you look at her over your shoulder, retrieving clean clothes from your dresser. You have about three hours before your first class of the day, and you still need to shower, eat, and get your notes organized.

“You seem upset,” Ana says, tilting her head to the side. “What happened?”

“Nothing, aside from what I told you already. It was a long weekend,” you lie, shedding your wrinkled clothes. “Ugh, these even smell like a hospital.”

“Says the future doctor,” Ana sighs, laying back on your bed. “You know I can tell when you’re being dishonest, right?”

“Stay out of my head,” you grumble, kicking your dirty clothes into the closet where they’ll remain, lumped together with your bag until you feel like tidying up.

“I don’t need to sneak inside that disaster area you call a subconscious to know when you’re telling a great, fat lie,” she answers, kicking her legs out at you where they dangle over the edge of the bed.

 “It’s nothing,” you insist, already stepping into your shared bathroom.

“It’s never _nothing_ ,” she counters, sitting up. “But you always say it is, and I have to pretend like you’re being reasonable when all I want to do is smack you upside the head and tell you to stop treating me like a baby. Now talk.”

Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, stripped down to your underwear and bra, you take a moment to study your younger sister.  She’s watching you from the bed, propping herself up by the elbows, one brow arched the same way you know yours does when you’re particularly annoyed (or when you know you’ve won an argument).

“Barnes said some things while he was high as a bloody kite, and I was exhausted and may have reciprocated his sentiments—aloud—but now that he’s only mildly stoned, he seems to have forgotten the entire thing, and I’m not sure if I should be relieved or disappointed, or feeling like a complete prat for caring either way.”

Ana remains silent for several long seconds before suddenly thrusting both arms in the air. “I was totally right!” she cheers, bouncing up onto her feet and actually—no joke—high-fiving herself. “He’s in love with you! Oh my God, this is so awesome!”

“I’m putting you up for adoption,” you scowl, just before slamming the bathroom door. 

* * *

By Friday evening, you’re back at the Tower, kneeling and holding Barnes’ feet firmly against the floor in his apartment as he finishes another set of crunches.

“I owe you an apology,” he pants, gritting his teeth as he pulls himself up and forward again.

“For what?” you ask, rolling back on your haunches as he catches his breath, finally finished.

“What I said to you in the hospital,” he answers immediately, stretching flat against the floor. “When I woke up.”

“I’m surprised you remember any of that,” you shrug, trying to appear unconcerned. “You were pretty blitzed.”

“Not an excuse. I put you on the spot knowing how you felt about it already.”

 _It_.

You mentally cringe, simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

“You were tryin’ to be my friend and I wouldn’t let it go.  I brought it up with Dr. Stapleton. Helped me see what I was doing, the position I was putting you in. I wasn't being fair." 

“Dr. Stapleton?” you ask, tossing him a half-empty water bottle as he sits back up.

“My shrink.  I thought about what you said, about my being stupid about all this,” he gestures vaguely to his head. “I mean, I’m not in there spillin’ my guts or anything, but we talk now.”

“Is it helping?”

“Maybe. I dunno,” he shrugs, looking away. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable about coming here.  Thought we could start over?”

“That’s not necessary, Barnes,” you tell him, getting to your feet. “What we talked about—and I’m not going to act as if you were the only one doing the talking—doesn’t have to hurt our friendship.”

“I’d like that,” he says, looking up at you and reaching for a hand getting up. “To have a friend. Besides Steve.”

“Put my name down,” you nod, grabbing him around the proffered wrist and pulling until he’s righted himself.

“Not sayin’ that I wouldn’t take y’out dancing if the opportunity ever came up,” he says, brushing back a stray strand of hair that’s slipped loose from his ponytail. “But I got a lot of work to do before that's even an option. Don't know why I couldn’t see that before.”

“You were badly hurt and frightened,” you tell him, reaching out to smack him lightly against his forearm. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You look a hundred times better today than you did the last time I saw you. You’re doing great.”

He’s clearly put on some weight, though not nearly enough to fill out his frame.  Still, he doesn’t look like he’s got one foot in the grave anymore, so you’ll heap on the praise and count it as a victory.

“Appetite came back with a vengeance,” he admits, eyes drifting toward the kitchen. “Like my stomach suddenly woke up.”

“That arm was constantly doing damage your body had to fix,” you tell him, padding toward the massive fridge.  “The torque it was applying to your skeletal system was— _Ugh._ Not even talking about micro-fractures at that point. Your body was in survival mode, probably has been for a few decades at least. Now that you've had a chance to catch your breath, little things like being hungry can be addressed without waiting until it's a crisis.”

“It’s a lot quieter upstairs, too,” he tells you, trailing close enough behind that you can feel the heat from his body. “Still have the nightmares, though.”

“What does Dr. Stapleton say about them?”

“That they’ll probably always be there. I might go weeks or months without one, but they won’t ever go away completely.”

“Do you talk to—her?” you pause, tugging the door to the refrigerator open, basking in the sudden blast of cold.

“Her,” he confirms.

“Do you talk to her about them in any detail?” you finish, retrieving another bottle of water for each of you.

“Not yet,” he admits, wrapping his hand around the frosted plastic after you pass it over. “Maybe not ever. It’s not easy to describe them without feeling like I’m back there. Living it all over again.”

“I get that,” you nod, leaning forward on the opposite side of the counter, taking a long swallow from the ice-cold water. “Ana’s always trying to get me to talk about mine."

“You—” he hesitates, squinting slightly. “You have nightmares?”

“I think everyone does.”

“Yeah, but you don’t mean the normal kind, do you?”

“No, probably not,” you pop your lips and turn back to the fridge. “Drink your water. Don’t want you to get dehydrated.”

“What’re they about?” he presses, standing up from his seat on the stool and coming around to your side of the island.

Well, now you’re well and truly fucked.  Stupid mouth and its stupid mouth-sounds.

“I told you in Queens,” you sigh. “Everyone has a past.”

“Tell me,” he prods.  “Then I can tell you. It’ll be fair that way. A trade.”

“That’s now how therapy is supposed to work,” you tell him, drifting out of the kitchen before he can box you in. “And I’m not your therapist.”

“I dream about the train,” he says in a rush, catching up to you near the long couch in front of the TV. “Over and over.  Steve just watches from the door of the car, laughing at me, turning away, and then the metal breaks off and I fall. Wake up screaming and Steve—the real one—is trying to kick the goddamn door down and make sure I’m okay.”

“And you’re not,” you nod, sliding down onto the cushions, the soft material cool against your skin where your workout gear doesn’t cover you.

“Fuck no,” he says, taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch. “And he knows it, but he doesn’t push when I tell him to go back to bed.  I think he already knows what I see when I close my eyes.”

“He’s read your file,” you nod again. “Maybe not all of it, but enough.  I’m sure he has his own nightmares from crashing the _Valkyrie_ , losing you, whatever else he considers his personal and public failures. Battle of New York was no picnic.”

“The Potomac wasn’t either,” he sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I dream about Zola a lot, too. About training. Missions. Things I did. Things that were done to me. Sometimes it’s just people laughing and the memory of pain.”

“I dream about my father,” you tell him quietly, picking at the wilting label slipping free from your water bottle.

“Your father?”

“He was a bully, and a brute.  Kept my mother and I living in a perpetual state of terror for most of my childhood. I hated him, and feared him, and loved him all at once,” you sigh. “Families are strange like that, I suppose. You really want to hear this?”

“Yes,” he nods, reaching out to brush his fingers against your bare arm. “That’s selfish, I know, but I want to know everything about you. Good and bad.”

“So we’ll start with the worst bits,” you exhale, smiling ruefully.

“I need to know you’ll understand first,” he insists. “Then maybe it won’t be so hard to tell you more, about what I remember when I was the Soldier. There’s so much shit up here, and I want it out, I do, but how do you talk to someone about any of it if you’re already convinced they couldn’t possibly understand?”

You pull your legs in until you're sitting in Lotus position, tucking the water bottle behind you so it won’t get in the way or be a distraction. “Experiences are, by their very nature, entirely subjective. What happened to me, and what I did in turn, can’t measure up to your story in any quantifiable way.  This isn’t me telling you how we have some sort of shared life experience.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s not what I’m after."

“Fair enough,” you sigh, surrendering that last bit of resistance screaming at you to _stop bloody talking_. “My father was an absolutely vicious drunk. Most days, he’d spend all his money at the pub after work, buying pints for himself and his mates, then stagger home, lit up like a Christmas tree, spitting mad and spoiling for a fight.”

It’s been over a decade, and you still feel a jolt of adrenaline whenever someone opens a door too quickly, or lets it bang shut behind them.  When it catches you unprepared, the smell of hard liquor can cause you to break out into a sweat, your brain immediately searching for the smallest, most inaccessible place to hide before you have a chance to remind yourself that he’s gone.

“He’d find some reason to justify his shit mood,” you continue, swallowing thickly around a tongue that suddenly seems too big for your mouth, your accent slipping a little, the posh veneer you'd appropriated from Professor Xavier giving way to your own low-rent drawl. “Dinner had gone cold, house wasn’t tidy enough, I was a spoilt brat, or my mother had let her gaze linger too long on the postman.  Really, he just wanted to hit someone, so he’d get to shouting nonsense, maybe break a few dishes, and then beat on my mother for a while.”

Barnes inhales sharply and you glance up, catching the way the muscles in his arm bunch as he grips the back of the sofa with his remaining hand.

“Sometimes, that’s where it would end. He’d exhaust himself and pass out, then complain about the mess in the morning when he’d come ‘round.  But there were nights when seeing her blood on his knuckles wasn’t enough, and he’d come looking for me.  I got really good at hiding, but he was relentless. Eventually, he’d drag me out and get back to business.  He was smart, though. Never touched me where anyone could see the marks so long as I had my clothes on.”

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Barnes snarls, already starting to stand from the couch as if he means _right goddamn now_.

“Sit down,” you snort, shaking your head at him. “Don't be a pillock.”

“I’m not—”

“You want to hear this story or not?”

He claps his jaw shut, but his eyes are still bird-bright and burning.  You feel your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of him, something warm coiling in your belly at the thought that he really would do it, if it were possible, and for no other reason than because your father had hurt you when you were small and defenseless.

“So, as I said, that went on for years, and we took it as if we deserved it. As if there were no other way to live.  Then when I was eight, Ana was born, and everything changed.”

“How?” he asks. “Why?”

“I had someone to protect, and that made me bold; brave, even.  I couldn’t let him do to her what he’d done to me, and I knew my mother would never stop him if he tried. She was an ignorant and weak woman. A part of me can appreciate the lack of options she had and the complexity of her situation, but she was still my _mother_ , and she never once tried to put herself between him and me, while I lost count of the times I took a beating meant for her.”

“Jesus Christ,” he swears. “I’m sorry, kid."

“You my father?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell are you apologizing for?” you ask, and before he can answer, you put your head down and push through. “The first time he came looking for me after Ana came home from the hospital, I didn’t run and hide. I walked to our room and grabbed a cricket bat I’d stashed under my bed and then I beat him bloody.”

“That’s my girl,” Barnes breathes, closing his eyes and sinking back into the couch, some of the tension draining away. You feel something like pride well up inside at his relief and the words that tumble out of his mouth.  You wonder if he’s realized that he said them out loud, or if they just slipped through before he could think better of them and button up.

“Things were better for a while after that. Nearly four years passed without a serious incident. Mum even got a job down at the local market bagging groceries. Nothing fancy, but it was the first time she’d had her own pocket money since she’d gotten married,” you continue, looking up at the vaulted ceiling before eventually allowing your gaze to drift back down to Barnes.

“Didn’t last, though,” he guesses. “Right?”

“Course not,” you confirm. “I was twelve the day it happened.  Hadn’t felt right that morning, but I went to school anyway.  As the hours wore on, I got worse and worse, until my teacher took me down to the nurse and insisted I be sent home before I infected the whole school with whatever I was incubating. I was sweating, dizzy, disoriented, and itchy everywhere.  Nurse tried to ring my parents, but no one was home to answer. I told her I could walk, and that we didn’t live far, so she just shrugged and signed a note, sent me on my way.”

You shiver, the memory of that day so crisp, so well-preserved in your mind that you’d swear you were back standing in the doorway to the tiny Edmonton council house you’d called home for over a decade.

“I knew something was wrong when I saw his car in the drive. He was supposed to be at work.  Then I spotted Ana’s little backpack tossed in the garden bed.  She loved that stupid thing, mum had bought it new for her and she would have never left it in the dirt.”

“I’d just gotten through the front door when I heard her scream.  That sound—I’ll never forget that fucking sound—shot through me and the whole world started spinning.  Somehow, I got down the hall where I could see into our bedroom. And he’s standing there, standing over her, and he’s got his belt in his hand.  Ana’s on the floor, holding her face where he’s split her cheek open—hit her with the buckle, the fucking _monster_ —and he’s bringing his arm back to hit her again.”

You must have started crying, because suddenly Barnes has closed the space between you, has got his good arm wrapped around your shoulders, crushing you against him. 

“That was the first time I changed,” you confess, resting your chin on what remains of his left shoulder.  “One moment I was me, and then I wasn’t anymore. I don’t remember consciously picking what to become, but I knew I needed to be strong enough to protect Ana, to stop him.  I must have made some sort of noise, because he turns around and looks right at me, bloody baffled, and says _‘Ramses’?”_

You laugh against his chest, pulling back so you can look him in the eyes. “Ramses. Our fucking neighbor’s mastiff.  That’s what I turned into. A sodding dog.”

“A big dog,” Barnes argues, voice rough, before wiping your face with his whole hand.

“Yeah, big and mean.  I could smell Ana’s fear, and while my brain is busy fighting for control of the dog, trying to make sense of what's happened, I see that Dad is getting ready to pop me one.  That did him in, ultimately.  Next thing I remember, I’ve got him flat on his back, my teeth are in his throat, and I’m shaking him apart like a rabbit. He bled out in minutes.”

“He deserved it,” Barnes rasps. “Deserved worse. He would have killed one or all of you eventually.”

“Maybe,” you admit. “Maybe not. He probably wouldn’t have lived past fifty, rate he was going. Doesn’t matter though. In the end, it was me. I killed my father, and Ana witnessed the whole thing.”

Gradually, you tell him the rest of the grisly tale; how you’d changed back moments after your father’s body had gone cold, covered in his blood, spitting it from your mouth. You’d hidden your torn clothes in the closet and put a clean uniform on moments before the first police car pulled up to the front of the house.  Someone, maybe Ramses’ owner, had heard the commotion and had called 999 to report the disturbance.

The police had never quite figured out how a dog got in and then out of a house with all the doors and windows shut, or how it had managed to leave no footprints.  But the bite impression they’d taken from your father’s corpse was irrefutably canine.  A week later, the local magistrate ordered Ramses destroyed. 

You hadn’t cried a single tear for your father, but you’d wept for the dog.

A month later, Dr. MacTaggert appeared on your front steps, declaring that you and Ana had been offered full scholarships to attend Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters in America.  It had taken an additional £30,000, tax free, deposited in your mother’s bank account before she signed over custody to a man she'd never met. She'd made noises about Charles Xavier being better suited to give you and Ana the lives you deserved, all while refusing to so much as look at you, and only managing to pat Ana on the head once before shutting the door of the only home you'd ever known, eager to have one less complication in her life. She hadn't even had the decency to pretend like it was a hard decision.

She died two years later in a car accident. You were assured by what little family you had left in London that the funeral had been a tasteful, if modest, affair.  Professor Xavier paid for the whole thing, even offered to fly you and Ana across the ocean to sit in attendance.  You’d politely declined, and Ana never went anywhere without you. So that was that.

“My tale of woe,” you sniffle, smirking and trying to downplay your positively fractured emotions. “Poor me.”

“Don’t,” he says, voice surprisingly soft. “And I know you’ll just yell at me again, but I’m sorry that happened to you. I can’t stand that it did. I was somewhere, awake or sleeping, when he put you through that, and it makes me sick knowing—”

“I don’t think my bastard-of-a-father would have rated as a worthy target for the Winter Soldier,” you tease.  You push back from him and step away from the couch, walking towards the huge windows that overlook the pulsing, frantic lights of the city.

“There was a woman in Zagreb,” he says, breaking the silence. “A scientist, I think.  There were a lot of missions for scientists or their research.  She had kids, a boy and a girl. I waited for them in their house, tied them up after they went to sleep and tortured her for hours, trying to extract whatever information my handler was after.  When she wouldn’t tell me what I needed to know, I threatened to murder her children in front of her.”

“Did you?” you ask, unable to keep the horror out of your voice.

“No,” he says, refusing to look at you. “Not in front of her.”

He lets that sink in, his good hand traveling across his torso to press against the metal plates still embedded in his chest.

“I don’t think she actually knew anything.  Just before dawn, I got word to terminate the target and all witnesses. I put a bullet in each of their heads and burned the house down.  The kids, they were awake when I pulled the trigger. They saw what was coming, saw me.  I never even knew their names. Wasn’t relevant to the mission parameters.”

“That wasn’t you,” you insist, leaning your head against the cool glass. “You’re not responsible for what they made you do.”

“You think those kids give a shit about those kinds of distinctions?” he asks. “Do you think any of them would care?”

“They’re dead, Barnes. They don’t care about anything anymore.”

“I have to find the people who put me in that house,” he says. “And all the other places I was sent to.”

“You’re in no shape to strike out on a quest for vengeance,” you mutter, returning to the couch and leaning over the back of it. “Besides, that's not how it works. The cumulative value of your life isn't written down anywhere; one column tracking good acts, another the bad. You can't erase what happened.”

"Then what's left?" he demands. "I can't just carry on like it didn't' happen, like they didn't matter."

"You do it for  _you_ , Barnes. Not for them. Look, I'm barely what you would consider spiritual. My brain just doesn't work that way. I don't believe that your scientist or her kids are looking down from a paradise realm, hating you because of what you did. I don't think their spirits are wandering the streets of some Croatian city, unable to rest, until you avenge their deaths. There's no cosmic scale. No green-skinned Osiris passing judgment on your earthly life. You die, and it's like the lights are switched off. Everything stops,  _you_ stop, and that's it."

"I wasn't raised that way," he says, looking at you as if you're trying to convince him the moon landing was faked, or that the Earth is actually flat.

"Yeah, I know; good Catholic boy from Brooklyn. I'm not trying to convince you to abandon your religion," you sigh. "I'm just saying that you carry this burden for you, you make it right for  _you_. The dead can work out their own psychological hang-ups. They have eternity, after all." 

“I tell you about how I murdered an entire family, and you still find a way to make it okay,” he sighs. “You and Steve are cut from the same cloth, I swear.”

“It’s not okay,” you tell him. “It’s horrible. But it wasn’t your fault. You had no choice.”

“Knowing that doesn’t make the guilt go away,” he says, picking at the fabric of the couch. “And I don't agree about there being no scales, no judgment, and that means I have a lot of work to do. A lot to make up for. I got no right being here while all those other people are dead because of me.”

“Then do whatever is required to earn your ticket,” you observe. "But not until you're ready. You're being held together with duct tape and popsicle sticks, more-or-less. Give it some time. Maybe talk to Steve and Natasha. This isn't something you need to do alone, and they'll understand."

“My Ma would have loved you,” he smirks, looking up and granting the briefest of smiles. “She didn’t have time for whining neither.”

Despite the somber mood, you laugh and stick your tongue out at him. His eyes flicker to your mouth, lingering there a moment too long before he clears his throat and stands up from the couch.

“Steve told me the others are having dinner together up at Stark’s place,” he says, walking towards the kitchen. “Wanted me to tell you that you’re invited.”

“You going?”

“Nah, I’m not—” he hesitates, dragging his fingers through his hair and pulling the tie free. “Not ready for that.  Too many people.”

“Fair enough,” you shrug. “I’ll stay down here with you.  We can order delivery, maybe introduce you to the wonderful world of dim sum.”

“That’s Chinese, right?”

“Yes, Barnes, that’s Chinese.”

“Not any of that raw fish stuff, though,” he says, wrinkling his nose.

You pick your phone up off a nearby side-table, bringing up the contact information for Radiance Tea House. "Sushi is Japanese, and it is delicious, and we will revisit this subject at a later date. With chopsticks."

"Sorry, guess I'm just an old-fashioned meat and potatoes kind of guy," he chuckles.

"A treatable condition," you tease right back. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sanitized Version of Protag's Confession: Father was an abusive alcoholic. The first time he went after Ana, protag's mutation manifests and she kills him while in the form of her neighbor's dog. She and Ana are taken to live at Xavier's shortly thereafter.
> 
> \---
> 
> This is another quick chapter which sets up some things for further down the line. I really wanted to get these "confessions" worked into the story, as well as Barnes backpedaling a bit with his attachment regarding the protag. So at this point, they can both accept that maybe there are some legit feelings there, but neither is in the position to do anything about them. Maybe it'll work out, maybe it won't, but at the very least, they can be friends, right?
> 
> Right.
> 
> Anyway, I wasn't planning for two chapters this week, but this one kind of willed itself into existence right on my desktop, almost without my knowing (or permission). If I didn't know any better, I'd blame the Fanfic Fairies, but everyone knows those aren't real. o___o
> 
> I have a few more chapters planned for this part of the story, so brace yourselves for drama and Angry!Bucky and Angry!Steve. :)
> 
> PS -- I love writing scenes for Ana. She's so much fun.
> 
> PPS -- <3 <3 <3 to everyone who has taken time out of their day to leave a comment, create a bookmark, and drop a kudos!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: Violence, graphic descriptions of gore.

* * *

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

 

“You had one job,” Wilson hisses at you the next day, emphatically shaking his head. You're sharing the back bench of one of Stark's SUVs, leaning against Sam's shoulder as he only sort-of seriously berates you for the current situation.

“I know, I panicked,” you whisper back, hiding your guilty smile behind your hand. “He ambushed me.”

“I did not,” Steve says from the front. “I asked if you if it was a date and you said no.”

Barnes’ head snaps around and he stares at you and Sam from the middle row, which he’s got all to himself. “Was it a date?” he asks, facial expression switching from worried to annoyed to unreadable in a matter of seconds.

“Nah,” Sam says, looking out the dark-tinted window to his left as Natasha navigates through the omnipresent press of taxis and delivery trucks. “She shot me down. Still, I didn’t think this was gonna turn into a team exercise.”

“I said I was sorry a hundred times already,” Steve sighs. “We can go back to the Tower—”

“No we can’t,” Natasha interrupts. “Do you see this traffic? I’m not turning around.”

“You asked her out?” Barnes asks, staring a hole right through Wilson’s forehead.

“Oh man, did I need to ask for permission first?” Wilson retorts, continuing to throw Bucky off-balance by refusing to get riled by the aggressive line of questioning.

Barnes’ jaw works spastically for a few seconds before he turns back around. “No.”

“Don’t sulk,” you tease, tugging gently on Barnes’ ponytail. He jerks his head away and leans forward so that it remains out of your reach. “Oh, come now. You heard him; it wasn’t a date.”

“Think I stepped on Big Man’s toes,” Wilson chuckles. “My bad.”

“I don’t have a claim on her,” Barnes growls.

“A _claim_ on me? What am I, a homestead? A bloody coal mine?”

Barnes just shrugs as Wilson howls with laughter.

“What was the name of this place?” Natasha asks, popping her gum.

“McSorley’s,” Wilson calls up to the front, wiping tears from his eyes. “We need to be on Seventh.”

“Copy that. Almost there.”

It takes almost an hour before Natasha can find a place to park. You’d asked her earlier about the lack of a Stark-appointed driver (seems to you that having one would have made this much easier), but she’d just shrugged and said something about Tony’s people only getting in the way. Also, they seem to make Steve uncomfortable, always asking for autographs or taking pictures for their Instagram accounts.

“It’s important to maintain some semblance of normalcy for them,” she’d said. “Besides, we’re going out for drinks in the East Village, not raiding an AIM base.”

Eventually, you make your way from where Romanoff has executed an impressive parallel parking job to Sam’s choice of venue; an old ale house established in 1854, if the sign above the door is to be believed. Peeling black paint flakes from the weathered wood storefront, and an older gentleman is sweeping the sidewalk just in front of the door.

“Well, y’aren’t locals,” he says looking up from his work, the lilting cadence of his accent lovely and musical. “Where ya from?”

“Brooklyn,” Steve admits. “But don’t hold it against me.”

“Ah, no, no, better not,” the old man chuckles, wiping the corners of his mouth and squinting up at Rogers. “Y’look well enough. Good Irish stock, I’d guess, eh?”

“Both of my parents were from Ireland, actually,” he says. “I’m not sure where though.”

“Last name?”

“Rogers. My mother was a McGuirk.”

“Rogers, eh? Sound English,” he snorts, spitting onto the sidewalk. “McGuirk, though… That’s County Tyrone or Antrim, for sure. Descendants of Niall Naoighiallach, himself-himself! You can go in. Go on with ya, get yerself a pint, boy-o.”

The old man looks you up and down next, sucking on his teeth as he considers.

“No need to ask for my lineage, _ceannaire_ — _”_ you start, letting loose the full strength of your accent. “I come in peace.”

“A prim English rose like you speakin’ the Gaeltacht to me, lass? _”_

“You speak Gaelic?” Steve asks, hesitating in the doorway to the pub. “Since when?”

“Since none of your business,” you needle, scrunching up your nose. “Get inside, _tú fear amaideach!”_

The old man barks with laughter, shooing the rest of the group inside before returning to his sweeping.

* * *

“So what’s the deal?” Wilson asks, pushing another empty pint glass into the center of the table. You’re sitting with him and Natasha in the far corner of the dark, narrow room. Steve and Bucky are at the bar, talking to Mr. Donnelly—the old man with the broom, and also the owner, apparently—about the myriad photos, mementos, and other antiques that cover every available inch of wall and counter space. Steve had been particularly delighted when his question about which beers were available on tap was answered with a gruff: “Light an’ dark, as God intended.”

“The deal?” you parrot back to Wilson, keeping an eye on Barnes even as you try to simply relax and enjoy the evening. The bar had been relatively empty when you’d arrived, but it’s quickly filling up with hilariously bearded yuppie hipsters and college students, none of whom seem to have any regard for personal space.

“With you, with your badass voodoo self,” Sam answers, glancing at Natasha who is suddenly very interested in the conversation.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” you mutter, taking a long pull from your beer. “I don’t go in for that hocus pocus stuff.”

“That’s how you’re gonna play it, huh? Gonna pretend like we weren’t standing there when you stepped out of The Hulk’s time-out room, skin all leathery?” he challenges, mouth pulled to the side in that infuriating smirk.

“Your eyes do that thing, too,” Natasha notes. “Oh, and Tony may have mentioned something about a tiger.”

You spit your beer across the table, and Wilson loses it all over again.

“That little shit,” you scowl, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “He said he understood the need for—”

“He was drunk,” Natasha explains, waiting for Wilson to calm down. “The procedure with Barnes shook him, and Tony’s never had healthy coping mechanisms for emotional stress and pain.”

“So it just came up?” you ask, punching Wilson in the arm as he continues to giggle.

“Not exactly,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “I was curious about you. JARVIS wasn’t willing to share information, and what I did manage to get my hands on had huge chunks of data missing.”

“Natasha—”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. has been aware of what goes on at Xavier’s for years,” she tells you. “I figured you had to be some kind of gifted- or powered-person. You’re, what? A shapeshifter?”

“Ten points.”

“It’s the only thing that fits,” she says, her head tilting to the side. “And it explains a lot.”

“Hold on a minute, hold on,” Wilson says, leaning over the table towards you. “You’re a what?”

“A shapeshifter. Metamorph. Changeling. I can go on, though the synonyms tend to get rather colorful the further you stretch."

“Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes wide as saucers. “So you can become other people?”

“I can look like them, exactly like them if I have enough references to work with, but I don’t become them. I’m still me inside.”

Wilson slowly sits back, then downs his remaining pint (the bar serves them in pairs, and only in pairs) in one go.

“And there’s a whole school of people like you upstate?” he finally asks, setting the glass back down.

“Well we’re not all shapeshifters. Some mutants can read minds, fly, teleport, phase through solid objects, summon the power of Grayskull…”

Sam blinks at you before slowly standing up and wandering back to the bar, ostensibly to order another round of drinks, but more likely to avoid freaking out right in front of you.

“You have a useful skill set,” Natasha notes, scanning the crowd, her eyes lingering on Steve’s broad back where he’s still standing at the bar, talking to the owner. “I can think of a dozen missions that would have gone a lot smoother if we’d had someone with your abilities on our team. On my team.”

“Not interested,” you tell her, narrowing your eyes a fraction. “Unless you’re hunting tech-obsessed Nazi death cults. I’m all over that.”

She sighs and looks away again, just as Wilson returns to your table. He hovers there for a moment, a bit outside your direct line of sight.

“So what’s this about a tiger?” he asks.

This time, Natasha laughs.

* * *

“You okay?” you ask Barnes, having finally extricated yourself from Natasha and Sam. You were starting to have a hard time containing your annoyance at having your cover—flimsy as it may have been—blown because Tony is incapable of keeping his boozy trap shut.

“S’loud,” he grunts, hunched up over the bar, his hand wrapped around an empty pint glass. “Don’t like having my back open to the room.”

You wrap an arm over his shoulder, angling your torso so that you provide at least partial cover.

“We can go,” you tell him. “I think I’ve had my fill of cheese and onions.”

He snorts, looking down at the half-eaten plate of exactly that. “Steve’s havin’ fun,” he grumbles, looking at you from under the brim of his Mets cap.

The other super-soldier is deep in conversation with the owner, and you suspect the stories he’s sharing weren’t told to him by the “grandparents” he keeps mentioning, but are likely things he experienced or remembers from his original lifetime. Mr. Donnelly indulges him, bringing out stacks of photo albums and scowling at any of the younger patrons who try to crowd the bar or demand his attention.

“I’m not worried about Rogers,” you nudge. “I want you to have fun, too. If you’re not, we can go. This place will still be here next weekend. We can try again.”

He nods and ducks his head closer to yours. “Thanks, doll. Sorry if we ruined your date, and for what I said before about—”

“It’s fine,” you assure him. “He did ask me, but I declined. We were going to go out for drinks and conversation, nothing more.”

“It’s okay if you do, though,” he continues, pulling away from you. “If you want to do that, with other people. Go out. Like I said, I don’t have a—we’re not…”

You grab the bill of his hat and tug him back toward you, rising up on your tip toes to plant a kiss on his nose. “Stop fretting so much,” you tell him. “I’m a grown woman and I’ll do what I want, when I want, with whomever I please. I don’t need your permission. This isn’t on you.”

He flushes and licks his lips, those pretty, sad eyes once again lingering on your mouth. For a moment, you’re worried he’s going to do something regrettable (oh, please do), but then he snaps out of his trance, turning away from you completely.

“Better tell Steve,” he says. “I’m ready to go.”

“Okay,” you answer, patting his back. “We should be ready in ten. Just have to settle up, and then we’ll be on our way home.”

* * *

“I couldn’a stand the idea m’self,” Mr. Donnelly is saying to Steve, leaning over the bar conspiratorially. “But the kids are always askin’ after music, as if any of this could be considered such. Last t’ing I need is a bunch of rich brats _twerkin’_ their rear ends in my bar, eh!”

“It looks nice, though,” Steve says, turning towards the brightly colored TouchTunes jukebox shoved off to the side of the bar. An advertisement flashes across the screen, announcing the availability of an accompanying smartphone app that will let the user select songs remotely.

“Damned nuisance,” Mr. Donnelly grumbles. “Just a bunch of screamin’ banshees, the lot of ‘em. Listen to it, would ya!”

You turn your attention to the soundtrack currently playing, wincing at the excessive use of percussion and other vaguely ominous sound effects. When the lyrics come in, they’re laced with a degree of anger you can almost taste.

“It is pretty awful,” Steve concedes. “Can’t even understand what they’re saying.”

You can. 

 _“Even if you run, I will find you_ ,” the vocalist threatens. “ _I decided I wanted you. Now I know, I need...”_

“Not really to my taste, either,” you agree, frowning. You reach over and close the album Rogers had been paging through. “Time to go. Barnes is uncomfortable and this crowd is starting to turn.” You motion to the increasingly rowdy groups of people filtering through the narrow space. Mr. Donnelly stomps down to the other end of the bar to curse at a particularly drunk college student taking his ale fresh from the teat, lips sealed around the tap as he friends cheer him on.

“Yeah, okay. He should have said something,” Rogers answers, digging in his jeans for his wallet.

“I already got the tab,” you tell him with a wink. “We’re all set, generous tip included.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he winces. “I wanted to, I mean… I know that it's not a big deal for women pay for things, I’m not a caveman, but I just—”

“Let’s go, Gronk,” you chuckle. “You’ve got that big mammoth hunt tomorrow.”

“You’re horrible,” he laughs, glancing over your shoulder. “Bucky hit the head? I don’t see him.”

“What? He didn’t say—”

 _“If you can’t be bought, tougher than I thought,”_ the band screams through the jukebox. _“Keep in mind, I am with you.”_

The hair on the back of your neck rises and you grab Steve’s hand. “Something’s wrong,” you hiss, eyes darting across the floor to where Natasha and Sam are still sitting. Nat has her hand resting firmly on her hip, and her eyes are as alert as yours. She’s noticed, too.

“What?” Rogers demands, his voice going hard as he catches sight of Romanoff and the change in her body language.

“I think we might have walked into something,” you growl, a hundred micro-adjustments firing off beneath your skin. “I think—”

The noise of the bar suddenly dies down, the atmosphere palpably souring enough to send the civilians scurrying for the door.

“Lock that! No witnesses!” Mr. Donnelly barks, and a tall main with his hair knotted into a raittail nods once before shoving the people trying to flee away from the exit. As they stumble back, confused, he throws the deadbolt and takes up position in front of it, quickly flanked by three equally burly specimens.

“I’m sorry about this, Captain,” the old man says from behind the bar, tapping his fingers on the beer-slick surface. “You seem like a good sort, but as I’m sure Secretary Pierce—God rest ‘is soul—told ya, y’made the wrong choice back in D.C.”

“Don’t do this,” Rogers warns.

“Hail HYDRA,” Donnelly replies, and then the room erupts into chaos.

There are too many people, too many sets of eyes for you to completely unleash on your assailants. Your instincts are screaming at you to change, to become something fierce and deadly, something with claws and teeth and muscles much stronger than yours will ever be. But for the sake of your family, you hold back.

Gunfire explodes around you as Steve throws you to the floor. He’s down next to you a split-second later, covering you before you shove him off. He’s the one who can’t get hit, not without body armor, not without his shield.

“Stay down,” you growl at him, before launching back up onto your feet. Some passive part of your brain notes Natasha and Sam’s positions relative to your own, that Sam is throwing pint glasses, chairs, entire tables at anyone holding a gun who isn’t Natasha. For her part, the Black Widow is fully in command of the situation, having produced twin Glock 26s from God-knows-where, and dropping enemy combatants with breathtakingly well-placed shots.

You move against your assailants, careful to reign in the vicious, intoxicating thrill that can sometimes sweep you away in its current, making you forget yourself while you fight. Sometimes that lack of control and restraint is the only thing that'll keep a situation from hitting FUBAR-levels of destruction, but the bar is full of regular people who have no dog in this fight. A slip-up here, now, could result in consequences you don't even want to consider.

The man closest to you raises his arm, the muzzle of his gun close enough to your face that you can make out the boring lines inside the barrel. You thrust your left arm up, against the bend of his elbow, and snap his joint the wrong way. You jerk your head to the side just as he fires. The damage to your ear is erased before he can even process what you’ve done, splinters of bone poking up from his skin, stringy bits of meat tearing as you twist his forearm, destroying the cartilage. He’ll be crippled for life.

You rip his gun away and toss it to Steve, who immediately empties the magazine into Donnelly’s face. You shove the HYDRA operative with the busted arm to the ground as the pain finally hits him. He screams and some feral and primitive part of your brain revels in the satisfaction of taking an enemy out of the fight.

Steve joins the fray in earnest, kicking another man squarely in the chest—the clear crunch of bone a guarantee he won’t be getting back up.

“They took Barnes!” Natasha yells over the din. “If they get him out of the city—”

She doesn’t need to say any more. You pull your arm back and smash your fist into another face, the woman’s bloody sputter sending teeth skittering onto the floor. You throw her to the side and make for the door.

Your way is blocked by a HYDRA goon squad quartet; the same men who had obstructed the only escape route for the civilians. Natasha drops two as she catches up to you, pistol-whipping the third while you charge Rattail, launching yourself at him and driving your elbow up into his solar plexus. He blocks and twists your shoulder back. You feel it dislocate, but instead of locking up with pain as he expects, you simply shut off those receptors and throw yourself at him again.

He’s caught off-guard and stumbles. You throw your head back, slamming the base of your skull into his face. His nose collapses inward and he lets go of your arm, hands flying up to catch the rush of blood. You snarl, teeth gone jagged, and kick him through the door.

“Go!” Natasha yells, reloading both handguns. She puts two rounds in Rattail's chest, and then one in his head as you leap past, out onto the sidewalk.

You draw in a deep breath through your nose, multiplying your olfactory receptors a hundredfold and increasing your brain’s scent-processing power as much as you can without altering your outward appearance. Barnes’ scent stands out like a signal flare over dark waters; a distinct chemical trail you can almost see. You sprint off after him, immeasurably grateful that you’d decided to wear sensible shoes for your not-date.

You follow 7th Avenue out to 3rd, heavy road construction keeping the traffic to a minimum, then across Cooper Square into an alley that threads its way between a huge gym and a furniture warehouse. At the far end, Barnes stands in front of a brick wall, swaying on his feet.

“James?” you ask, slowing to a jog. Once again, your senses are on high-alert, some internal gauge warning you that the situation is far from safe.

He doesn’t answer or show any outward sign of having heard you.

 _This is a killbox_ , you realize, moving so that you’re pressed up against the nearest wall. _So where’s the killer?_

You adjust the light-processing cells in your eyes to see along the infrared spectrum, patterning the change after boa constrictors and pit vipers.

_Where are you?_

A tiny red dot suddenly appears on the back of Barnes’ head and you barely have enough time to tackle him to the cement before the crack of the shot rings out. A hole the size of a lemon is blown in the wall in front of you, pulverizing the brick and mortar.

“Across the street!” Natasha shouts from the mouth of the alley. “The hotel roof! Is he hit?”

“No, but something’s not right. He’s completely checked out.”

“Conditioning,” she shouts back to you. “Someone probably whispered a code word or—”

“Roll left,” you bark, watching as the tiny red light flashes on her position. She complies immediately and the shot misses, blowing apart the rubbish bin.

“Shooter is on the move,” she reports. “We don’t have long before he resets.”

“We have to get Barnes out,” you tell her as she finally reaches your position. “He’s the one they want.”

“I’ve got six rounds left,” she says. “And my stingers, but they’re not much use unless I’m fighting hand-to-hand. We can't get him over that wall, so there’s only one way out of this alley.”

You huff and roll Barnes onto his back. His pupils are blown wide enough to swallow most of the irises, making his eyes seem black in the encroaching darkness. You scowl, pressing your fingers against his carotid. “Heart rate is a bit slow, almost like he’s drugged. Where the hell is Steve?”

“Probably calling for backup and looking for us. HYDRA must not have access to the tech that resets Barnes' brain anymore,” she answers. “Otherwise they’d be trying to take him alive."

“Doesn’t matter. They don’t get to touch him ever again.”

“Agreed,” she says. “We’ll have to make a break for the street, then get him inside a building until reinforcements arrive. We hunker down, wait for an extraction.”

“Sounds like a solid plan,” you nod. “Let’s go.”

You get yourself positioned under Barnes’ right arm and shoulder, grunting as you take as much weight as you can. The muscles in your back, shoulders, calves and thighs thicken, pushing out against your skin. You crank up the production of red blood cells as well, flooding the newly expanded muscle groups with oxygen.

“Now!” Natasha orders, and you drag Barnes with you at an easy, loping pace, hoping it doesn’t look too unnatural to the asshole with the scope. Your eyes search for the beam of light, looking for any surface it might be trained on as the shooter lines up his next shot. You follow Natasha out onto the sidewalk, the gunfire having vacated the area of pedestrians.  She leads you right, alongside the building you’d marked as a gym earlier. The signs on the window say ‘COMING SOON!’ and ‘SIGN UP TODAY!’ and ‘BE BEACH BODY READY!’ and you kind of want to smash one of them and forget about running all the way to the fucking door.

“Move, move!” Natasha shouts, shooting out the lock on the front door to the gym and throwing herself against it, forcing it open. She makes way for you to pull Barnes through, to safety, and then you see it.

The little red dot, hovering right between Natasha’s eyes.

You drop Barnes inside the doorway and jump forward, directly into the shot.

The sniper fires, and your world explodes.

* * *

Someone, somewhere, is screaming your name.

Your eardrums are both blown out, slowly knitting themselves back together as your brain starts to rebuild its higher-functioning lobes. Critical damage is always dealt with first unless you consciously force a less-pressing problem to jump the line. Heart has to keep pumping, oxygen still needs to reach your vital organs, and you need a functioning neural network to facilitate all of it.

Having a brain beyond what is purely reptile seems like a good idea, so as eager as you are to be able to see, speak, and hear again, you let your body do its thing uninterrupted.

“NO!” the deeply distressed voice continues, and distantly you feel weight on your chest, fingers pressing down over your ribs. Someone is trying to perform CPR. “Don’t leave me, please! _Please!”_

 _That’s stupid_ , you think. _He blew my fucking head off, not my heart or lungs. Plus, I’m pretty sure my jaw is in about a thousand pieces right now. What’re you gonna breathe into, my throat?_

“Natalia! _Do something!”_

“You need to take a step back, James,” Romanoff answers, her words almost lost beneath the growing wail of sirens. You don’t have eyes anymore (or if you do, they’re no longer attached to your head, or solid, or— _eugh),_ but you can almost picture Natasha trying to pull Barnes away, to block him from seeing the absolute mess of bone and blood and brains.

“Grrughf,” you manage, new teeth sprouting from your reformed gums, little enamel plates growing out from their roots and slotting into place. You cough as your windpipe snaps back into position, patching itself whole and reconnecting to your mouth and sinuses.

“святое дерьмо,” Natasha swears, and now you can see her; hazy and indistinct, but definitely her. 

“Stop that,” you gasp, pushing Barnes away and rolling onto your side to hide the exposed gore as everything is restored to working order. “Making such a fuss over nothing.” 

“Fuck you,” he stutters, shaking and fully himself again. Whatever spell HYDRA’s trigger had woven, it’s broken now. “I thought—You died right in front of me and—you _died_ and I couldn’t—there was nothing—”

“Slap him,” you grumble, waving a hand in Natasha’s direction. “I’d do it myself but I’m still regrowing most of my cerebellum. No fine motor control yet.” 

“God dammit,” he says, grabbing your shoulder and pulling you up to a sitting position. “I thought I lost you.” 

“Dunno how. I didn’t go anywhere. Or rather, I went everywhere. Carpet is ruined, for sure.” 

“This isn’t funny!” he shouts, eyes red and raw. 

“I have brain damage, Barnes,” you scowl. “Give us a minute, yeah? Let me get everything sorted and then I can mother you and we’ll make kissy faces ‘til the bloody sun comes up. Fuck’s sake, mate.” 

You never can tell how things will go when you take cranial damage like this. Your frontal lobe was turned into pudding and splattered up the wall, the back of your brain blown out in a spray across the floor, left and right hemispheres liquefied from the force of the shot. Your hindbrain survived, but even if it hadn’t, some cellular cluster would have gotten right to work fixing what had been destroyed.  Restoring all that grey matter and shuffling things like memory and personality back into place will take a bit longer than creating a new finger or liver, though. 

Sighing, you sink forward into his chest, inhaling the musty scent of his jacket. It stinks of mothballs and whatever cologne he splashed on (probably something Steve had handy) and it’s all wrong and not him.  “Hate this,” you say, tugging on the sleeve. “Burn it when we get back to the Tower. I’ll buy you a new one.” 

He pulls you further onto his lap, rocking gently. His heart is hammering in his chest at an alarming rate.  “I could see and hear everything,” he tells you. “But I couldn’t move except to go where they told me to. Had to report to the alley and wait for my handler.” 

“There was no handler, Barnes,” you tell him, feeling the pressure stabilize inside your skull with a perceptible pop. “They were going to—”

“I know,” he says. “Don’t ever do that again.” 

“Save your life?” 

“Risk yours for mine.” 

“I risked it for Natasha’s, actually,” you correct, smiling against him. 

“Thanks for that,” she adds, crouched just inside the doorway, her one remaining Glock at the ready. “I can see Steve and Sam. Pretty sure that shimmer overhead is one of Stark’s Quinjets. NYPD will be here in seconds.” 

“Promise me,” Barnes chokes into your hair. “You won’t ever do that again. Not for me, not for her, not for anyone.” 

“Nuh-uh. I’ll do it every time. Always. For any of you.” 

Because you’re one of the X-Men. 

Because you’re a goddamn _superhero._    

* * *

“What the hell happened tonight?” Stark demands, pacing along the length of the conference room. 

His people, along with some of Fury’s, had cleared a path for you and the others to make your getaway onboard the Quinjet earlier. After arriving at the Tower, everyone had received cursory medical attention before being herded here, to the War Room. 

“We were jumped,” you scowl, ignoring the growing hunger gnawing at your insides. You've burned through a lot of energy tonight and will need to replace it soon, or your body will start eating itself to compensate. 

“And how did that happen?” Tony continues. “Where was your security detail?” 

“I didn’t take one,” Natasha says, sitting across from you. “Barnes doesn’t go anywhere in this place without a small army trailing him, and Hill’s security teams are extremely unprofessional where Rogers is concerned. They need a break. _We_ needed a break.” 

“Well your little vacation almost got Sergeant Barnes killed,” he snarls, shoving a chair against the table. “This one had her head blown off if your report can be believed.” 

“I got better,” you shrug. “Much more concerning to me is how the one bar we decided to sneak off to just so happened to be run by a HYDRA cell. One that seemed to be expecting us.” 

“Whoa, whoa,” Sam says, taking offense. He has a pressure bandage wrapped around his right bicep, where a bullet had gone in-and-out cleanly. “I am not a HYDRA spy.” 

“We know,” Natasha says. “I conducted your background investigation myself. But they knew we were coming, and they’ve known it for a few days at least.”

“How do you figure?” Steve asks, fingers knitted together, elbows resting on the surface of the table. Barnes is sitting next to him, alternating from a preternatural stillness to a full-body tremble that starts in his hand before spreading to all of his extremities. 

“That ambush took planning, Steve. As an organization, HYDRA is in tatters. This was a major operation for them to launch, and even though it was sloppy, it was a lot more than we were expecting.” 

“You’ve been _expecting_ something like this?” you ask, bristling. 

“I try to expect everything that falls within the realm of possibility,” she explains. “Reduces the odds of my being surprised.” 

“But you were,” Tony points out, then turns his attention to Wilson. “Did you talk to anyone about where you wanted to take Jane of the Jungle?” 

“I don’t make a habit of gossiping with the interns,” Sam sighs. “I don’t think—aw, _shit.”_ Everyone, minus Barnes, leans forward in their seats. “I, um, might have been talking about it to a barista at that coffee shop down the block,” Wilson groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I asked her for suggestions.” 

“Because you’re from out of town,” you nod. 

“Yeah. I didn’t think it was weird at the time, but she had a lot of questions about you. When I mentioned that you were English, she told me about this authentic pub in the Village. Said you’d love it for sure.” 

“Probably a HYDRA plant,” Stark says. “JARVIS? Alert Hill. She’ll coordinate a joint investigation with S.H.I.E.L.D. and the FBI, probably the NYPD, too. Everyone wants a piece of these assholes. Makes for great television.” 

“Already done, Sir,” the AI responds. “She recommends we lock down the Tower for the time being.” 

“Do it,” Tony answers. “No one in or out for at least twenty-four hours. Make sure everyone is compensated for the OT.” 

“And what of the non-employees, Sir?” 

“Cut them disproportionately-sized checks,” he huffs, dispensing what will likely be millions of dollars with about as much concern as a normal person might feel after ripping off too much toilet tissue. 

“You gonna arrest everyone in the café?” Wilson asks. 

“Personally? No, not really my bag. But the nice people with handcuffswill take the aforementioned java hucksters in for questioning and you, my feathered friend, will be shipped out to help ID the responsible party. Consider it the first task of what will likely be an exhaustive list of required _mea culpas_ that you need to perform before you can start feeling like anything other than an asshole."

“I didn’t think—”

“That’s the problem!” Tony sneers. “None of you were thinking! We don’t even have Barnes’ legal situation smoothed over and you idiots are taking him out for body shots?” 

“We had a few beers,” you argue. “And Natasha is right; you can’t keep him locked up in the Tower like he’s bloody Rapunzel.” 

“You should have cleared your little field trip with Hill,” Tony says. “At the very least. How can I trust—”

“Oh, don’t start preaching to me about trust, Stark,” you snap. “I trusted you with highly sensitive information, stressed to you how important it was to keep it classified, and not two days after I go back to Westchester, you hand that information over to one of the planet’s most accomplished fucking spies.” 

“What?” he asks, looking genuinely baffled. 

Natasha clears her throat. 

“I didn’t—” Tony starts, then visibly pales, finally taking a seat in the chair he’s been hitting and shoving around for the last half hour. “You,” he says, staring at Romanoff. “Are a very bad influence.” 

“I never forced you to—”

“Oh no, of course you didn’t. You only showed up in my lab with a bottle of your favorite Russian vodka, already knowing I was extremely upset, offering a friendly shoulder to unburden myself on. Do you do anything sincerely?” 

“Yes,” Natasha answers, declining to elaborate or defend herself further. 

“What happened, _happened,”_ you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “I want to know how they did it. Even with the coffee shop agent pointing Wilson in their direction, are we really supposed to believe that HYDRA has been running an Irish pub in the East Village since the mid-nineteenth century?” 

“Pardon me,” JARVIS interrupts. “But I have been scanning recent police reports for anything that might have been related to what happened this evening, and I believe I may have found something of importance.” 

The hologram display in the center of the table generates several police reports, along with one very detailed coroner’s file on a “white male, late 80s, identity unknown” whose body had been pulled from the Hudson three days earlier. Neither the water nor the fish had been kind. DNA tests and dental records are listed as 'pending.' 

“I ran our facial identification program against all social media accounts, public records, search engines, and security footage, and found a match,” JARVIS continues. “This,” he says, a photo of a smiling, ruddy-cheeked older gentleman replacing the collection of reports, “is Cormac Diarmuid Donnelly, born January 15, 1933. He is listed as the sole owner and proprietor of McSorley’s Old Ale House, 15 East 7th Street, New York, New York.” 

“That’s not the man who claimed he owned the place,” Steve says, stricken. 

“Son of a bitch,” Tony breathes. “They killed the real Donnelly and put a doppelganger in his place on the off-chance that Barnes might show up. He wasn’t even supposed to be there, but they took steps anyway.” 

“They might have been happy to take out an Avenger or two,” you suggest, glancing at Sam. “And if they have eyes on Barnes, they’ll have taken notice of me, as well. Maybe they thought kidnapping or killing us would have drawn him out.” 

“Would have,” Barnes mumbles. “If they took you, if they hurt you.” 

“Love you too, man,” Wilson scowls. 

“Barnes,” Natasha says, staring at the former assassin now that he’s finally spoken. “Do you remember if anyone said something to you before you walked out of the bar? Someone you didn’t recognize, who maybe showed a little too much interest in you?” 

“Wasn’t something someone said,” he says, shaking his head and keeping his eyes down. “It was the song.” 

“Bastard,” you hiss, the information sliding into place. “Donnelly—or whoever he really was—he made a point of getting Steve and I to listen to the music playing on the jukebox. Must have thought it was hilarious having us sit there discussing how we didn’t like it while Barnes had his switch flipped.” 

“Sniper had to be HYDRA as well,” Natasha says. “Or someone they hired. He was good. The plan was to have a captive, static target. When that didn’t happen, he or she adapted. If it weren’t for your abilities, they would have taken one or several of us out.” 

“Probably too much to hope the police recovered anything useful from the scene,” you groan. “Fingerprints would be nice. DNA, better.” 

“I may be able to assist there as well,” JARVIS says, new images taking center stage. “I obtained these from several Stark Industries and NASA satellites. The composites are quite impressive, if I do say so myself.” 

A man dressed in black tactical gear crouches on the roof of a building—the hotel across from the alley—a high-powered rifle lined up for his shot.  A close-up of his face shows a black mask with a slash of white paint, vaguely resembling a skull. 

“Anyone recognize this asshole?” Tony asks. 

“He does not match any of the descriptions in our databases,” JARVIS states. “But I will continue to search for additional information.” 

“Doesn’t ring any bells for me,” Steve sighs. “Buck?” 

“No.” 

“I’ve never seen him before, either,” Natasha says. “But I’ll make some calls.” 

“I know a guy,” you groan, already dreading the necessity of seeking him out. “If anyone knows or can find out who this bastard is, it’s Frank.” 

Fucking _Castle_. He’d better not still be living in the bloody sewers.     

* * *

Immediately after the debrief, you call home. The hour is obscenely late (or early, depending on your perspective), but the Professor dismisses your apology for waking him as being entirely unnecessary. He’s far more concerned about you, about the injuries you’d sustained, and the care being provided by Stark’s medical staff. 

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “Nothing a few pizzas and a truckload of Gatorade won’t fix.” 

“I will do what I can from here to track down any leads on the shooter,” Charles promises. “And I’ll bring Scott and the others up to speed myself.” 

“He’s going to have me skinned alive,” you groan, heading toward the elevator that will take you to your quarters. 

“This entire situation frightens him,” the Professor says. “He has very good reasons for wanting to stay out of the affairs of the rest of the world.” 

“He can list whatever reasons he likes,” you argue. “The rest of the world isn’t going to keep away simply because he wishes it would. Isolating ourselves only assures that when someone does breach our walls, we'll have no one call for back-up. We'll be on our own." 

“You’re right,” he answers, voice gone soft, almost sad. “I believe the days we can stay safely hidden are coming to a close, regardless of mine or Scott’s precautions.” 

“Why assume that staying hidden means staying safe?” you ask, stepping into the elevator. JARVIS knows which floor to take you to, the doors sliding shut just before the carriage begins its descent to the guest quarters. "I know how that trick plays out. It just delays the inevitable. Better to stand up and fight back when someone comes looking for trouble."

“There are some things that we will need to discuss the next time you are home,” he answers. “The nature of which require a face-to-face conversation.” 

“That’s a bit heavy for wee hours such as these,” you remark, stepping out of the elevator, and turning left towards the hallway that leads to your (spacious, gorgeous, with an amazing view) room. 

“See to your immediate needs for now,” the Professor says. “And then get some rest. You sound exhausted.” 

“Okay,” you agree. “Thank you.”  You say goodbye and disconnect, stepping into your room as JARVIS automatically unlocks the door for you. 

“Madam, forgive me if I have overstepped my bounds, but I took the liberty of ordering food for you while you were speaking with your mentor,” the AI reports. 

“No, that’s fine. Great, even. Thank you. Can I ask what you chose?” 

“A variety of menu items. We have several world-class chefs under the direct employ of Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts, for themselves and their guests, and the various eateries within the Tower. Everything should be delivered to your door within the hour. I can provide a more detailed description if—” 

“Not necessary, JARVIS. You are the best, by the way,” you sigh, tossing your phone onto a sculptural piece of furniture that is probably a desk or an end table. Might just be art, but you’ve always thought functional art was the best kind anyway. 

“I aim to please,” JARVIS answers. You smile and strip out of your bloody, gore-smeared clothes and make a beeline for the shower. The hot water is a balm, as is the fantastic-smelling shampoo and conditioner you generously lather into your hair. By the time you shut the water off, someone is knocking at the door. 

“Food!” you chirrup, wrapping a towel around yourself and practically skipping to accept the delivery. 

“Actually—” JARVIS starts, but you already have the door pulled open, exultant grin replaced with a confused purse of your lips when it’s not a trolley full of appetizing meats and pies that greets you, but Barnes. 

“What are you—? Does Steve know you’re down here?” you ask, immediately noticing the rigid way he’s holding himself. 

“No,” he answers. “He stepped out to talk to Natasha, so I left.” 

“JARVIS?” 

“I have notified the Captain. He wants to know if you need him to retrieve Sergeant Barnes.” 

“Do you want to stay here?” you ask. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes,” he says. “No.” 

“You’re not okay?” He shakes his head and takes a tentative step inside your room. You hold your ground as he reaches out with his good arm, his fingers tracing your jaw, up across your cheekbone, your forehead, and down the opposite side as if he's checking to make sure you really are in one piece.

“Tell Steve to stand down, JARVIS. I have this.” 

“Yes, Madam.” 

“You were gone,” Barnes says. “I didn’t protect you.” 

You sigh, taking his hand in yours and leading him into the living space. “I don’t need you to protect me. This wasn’t your fault.” 

“It was.” 

“No, I am telling you that it wasn’t. I saw the laser sight, and I chose to step between Romanoff and the bullet. Don’t try to rob me of my autonomy by insisting that any of what I did of my own volition was because of you.” 

Before you can stop him, Barnes scoops you up with his one arm, draping you over his good shoulder in a fireman's carry. He kicks the door shut behind him and heads to the back of the suite, depositing you in the center of the plush bed.  

“I couldn’t protect you,” he says, fidgeting.  

“I suppose we’ll have to settle for protecting each other,” you snort, pushing yourself back against the headboard until you’re sitting on your own pillows. “And stop manhandling me. My legs aren’t broken.” 

“I’ll get stronger,” he tells you. “I won’t be like this forever. I was good at that once; protecting people.” 

“Come here,” you sigh, patting the space next to you. “Dinner should be here shortly. We’ll expand your gastronomic repertoire and then go to sleep. I’m too damn tired to try reasoning with you at the moment.” 

“I’m not confused,” he insists, untying his boots before slowly settling down next to you.  

“You’re a mess,” you laugh. 

“You’re naked,” he retorts, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Aren't you? Under that towel.” 

“Lecher,” you accuse. “I can put clothes on if you're uncomfor—” 

He leans in and presses his mouth against yours, swallowing the rest of your jibe. The briefest brush of his tongue against your lips makes you sigh, and he _licks_ inside your mouth, sweet, and hot, and brimming with the promise of delicious sin, before pulling away. 

“Been wantin’ to do that since Brooklyn, doll,” he says, still staring at your mouth. “Won’t do it again until you ask me to.” 

He starts to get up, leaning over the edge of the bed to pull his boots back on. 

“Barnes—”

He flinches, ready for the reprimand. 

“Stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOM.
> 
> *drops mic*
> 
>  
> 
> :D
> 
> Translations:
> 
> "ceannaire" = chief
> 
> "tú fear amaideach!" = you silly man!
> 
> "святое дерьмо" = holy shit 
> 
> HYDRA's trigger song: "Prosthetics," Slipknot (I KNOW RITE?!)
> 
> Fun fact: McSorley's Old Ale House is a real place in the East Village. They really do only serve 2 types of beer, and it is awesome. I highly recommend checking it out if you're ever in the neighborhood. 
> 
> The actual owners are the Maher family, so please don't accuse any of them of being HYDRA agents if you do stop by. XD
> 
> I have a tumblr for my fan fiction musings and nerdiness now! [I am a huge dork.](http://cosmosisjane.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Come talk to me! :D


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

* * *

"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker 

* * *

You manage to sleep well into the afternoon, eventually roused by Barnes’ arm pulling you closer against his chest, his breath warm on the back of your neck.  You’re not sure when or how the two of you had gotten so tangled up, but the panic you expect is utterly absent and in its place resides a deep, abiding sense of comfort.

“Morning,” he rumbles, and you can feel the reverberation pass from his body to yours.

“I think,” you sigh, turning in towards him and resting your head against his chest, the hard ridges and lines of the shoulder implant unyielding beneath his shirt, “we’re long past morning.”

“Yesterday was rough,” he says gruffly, rolling so he’s lying flat against the bed, dragging the comforter up around his waist.  There’s color in his cheeks as he continues to shift around, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

“You alright?” you ask, brow arching at his sudden restlessness.  He’d been so calm before, you’d almost—

“You’re still naked,” he huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his one remaining hand. “Haven’t shared a bed with anyone in… Well, I can’t remember how long it’s been, honestly.”

You blink, having forgotten your state of undress entirely.  The towel that you’d wrapped around yourself is lost somewhere in the mess of blankets and pillows, and you’d been so tired after polishing off the last of the food JARVIS ordered, you must have fallen asleep before even thinking about the necessity of pajamas. In an instant, a pattern of scales slightly darker than your own skin pebble over your body, providing some cover. 

“I’m sorry,” you offer, turning your back to him to avoid putting on a show. “I’ll just—”

“Christ,” he swears. “You got no reason to apologize to me. You’re not the one who can’t control—”

The wheels in your head lurch as he cuts himself off. Pulse quickening, you feel your mouth go suddenly dry. There’s a question, balanced there, practically vibrating at the desire to be spoken aloud, and before you can think better of it, you ask:

“Barnes… _Are you—?”_

“Please don’t make this any worse than it is,” he groans. “Fuckin’ embarrassed myself enough for one weekend.”

“This isn’t the first time since—since before HYDRA, is it?” you press, curiosity having gotten the best of you. 

He groans and squeezes his eyes shut, the smallest downward tilt of his chin indicating a ‘yes.’

“Oh, you poor man,” you breathe. “I’ll, um, just step outside—after getting dressed, of course—and you can—y’know. Whatever you need to do.  I mean, you _know_ what you need to do, no reason to get any more detailed—I’m going to stop talking now.” You bite your lip, carefully slipping out from under the covers. 

“This is your room, I’ll go,” he mutters.

“No, it’s fine. I want you to—I mean, not like that, well sort of like that, I suppose," you stammer. "I cannot believe I fell asleep like this.”

“Me either. Kept expecting you to wake up and sock me in the jaw,” he groans, eyes turned towards the ceiling once more. “Thought I was dreaming when you moved in so close. You have any idea how warm you are?”

“Barnes—”

“I know,” he nods, eyes flicking to your back, then to your eyes where you’ve turned towards him slightly. “Had to say it, though. Once, at least.”

You look away, wanting so badly to throw caution to the wind, to stop thinking three moves ahead of the now, and to accept that maybe—just this once—the Universe has conspired in your favor, putting someone in your path that you not only feel a connection to, but for whom the attraction is mutual, who understands and desires you despite your being what you are, who can hold his own in a fight, someone you can see becoming part of your family, even if they’ll make it as hard as humanly possible.

And yet the rational part of your brain knows that Barnes is still too screwed up to be involved with anyone, and that you have a moral obligation to make the hard call and stop this before it goes too far. 

“You asked me to stay,” he says quietly, breaking your silent reverie and bringing you back into the moment. “Why?”

“Because I wanted you to,” you answer simply. “Because yesterday was horrible, for both of us, and I didn’t want to sleep alone, didn’t want _you_ to sleep alone. There is—I do feel something for you, and I don’t think it’s a passing infatuation or some remnant of my mind in yours; yours in mine. I don’t think it has anything to do with handlers, or brainwashing, or misplaced affection.”

“But you’re not sure of me,” he says from behind you.

“I’m not sure you’re ready,” you correct. “I’m not sure that I wouldn’t be taking advantage of you.”

“I know I’m not all there yet, but I’m putting the pieces back together. You deserve more than something so broken, but—”

“Some _one_ ,” you snap, twisting your torso around and staring across the bed at him. “You are not a thing. You are a person, a good person. And you aren't broken, either.”

To his credit, his eyes remain trained on yours, though you have to guess that’s because you’ve caught him off-guard—as evidenced by the stunned expression on his face—rather than because of any sort of gentlemanly restraint.

You swivel all the way around, tucking your legs under you. “You do know that, right? That you’re good? A good man, a good friend?”

“I’m not—“ he starts, shaking his head. “I was, before; I think I was a pretty okay guy. Tried to do the right thing, but now I’m not sure where I fit.”

“Here,” you say, smoothing a hand along the rumpled sheets. “This is where you belong. Home. Safe. Surrounded by people who care about you, who love you.”

“With you,” he says, unsure, half-a-question.

“If you like,” you smile, head tilting to the side.

“I do,” he answers immediately. “And if this—" he waves his hand over the limp, empty sleeve on his left side, “—bothers you, I don’t need a new one.  Lotsa guys got injuries worse than this, and they do all right. Sam talked to me about it. I don't have to go back to the way I was. I can just be a guy. A regular guy.”

“That's your choice to make, but for what it's worth, the arm isn't a problem for me,” you remind him. “And if—that is to say, what I feel, I feel for all of you.” Seizing the moment—and capitalizing on the sense of calm that seems to have settled his nerves—you lean forward, running the back of your knuckles along the wiry hair covering his cheek and jaw. “You wanted me to ask before you’d kiss me again,” you hum, crowding him. “Consider this my formal request.”

You capture his bottom lip between your own, tender and tentative, waiting for him to respond and confirm you haven’t overstepped your bounds, that he really is ready.

He exhales hard through his nose, like some great internal pressure has finally been released, and pushes forward, his hand suddenly tangled in your hair. He rolls over you, legs straddling your hips, and crushes his mouth to yours.  You drink deeply of him, lower body rolling up against his, eliciting an almost pained groan from him as he rocks forward.

He pulls back, shaking with the effort it takes, pressing a hand against the side of your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“Knew you had it in you,” you tease, letting your tongue dart out against the tip of his finger. He grunts, clenching his jaw, the muscles of his arm bunching as he slides his hand around to cup the back of your head.

“I know you don’t think I’m—” His train of thought is catastrophically derailed when you hook your legs around his waist, locking your ankles against the small of his back and dragging him forward.  He swears, obscene and unfettered, and once again his body moves against yours, the rough pull of his jeans causing all kinds of exquisite friction.

“We should wait until you’re well enough to think clearly about what you want," you answer.

“I can’t think clearly around you,” he says in a rush, and this time you meet him halfway; all teeth, and tongues, the urgency of the moment sweeping you both far away from the safety of the shore.

He sits up, careful to keep most of his weight off of you, relying on the strength of his legs, and pulls his shirt off.  For the briefest moment, you see him hesitate, eyes darting to the metal socket.

“Don’t,” you warn. “None of that matters. Not the way you think it does. Not to me.” You scoot back until you have room pull yourself up into a sitting position, crooking a finger at him before spreading your arms out across the pillows.

He moves forward, knees sliding against the sheets and the mattress beneath, and then his hand—broad and rough with callouses (and thank God the serum doesn’t heal those)—presses against your stomach, dragging up against your sweat-slick skin, caressing your body, inch by inch. The scales dissolve, re-absorbed, forgotten and unwanted.

You suck in a harsh breath as his palm skims over your left breast, and his thumb—still wet from your tongue—brushes your nipple.

“Fuck,” you gasp, startled by the sudden ache that flares low in your belly, intense and almost painful, both arms curling around his neck.  You fall forward a bit, head pressed against his chest.

“Tell me,” he whispers roughly, and he moves his thumb again, right over the same spot.

 _“Yessss,”_ you hiss, pressing your teeth into the skin of his neck.  “Barnes—”

He rumbles deep in his chest, twisting his hand in your hair. “Again,” he growls, and the challenge in his voice is belied by clear notes of anxiety. Some part of him still doesn’t believe.

“I want this,” you tell him, leaning up and licking a stripe over the spot on his neck that you’d been worrying with your teeth moments before. “I want you.”

He stares, and for a moment, his expression is unreadable. “You’re real?” he asks. “You’re really here?”

You shove him back with a strength you usually keep well-disguised, then press against his chest until he catches on and lays back, legs stretched out, his head a few inches from the end of the bed.  Your hands wander, tracing every line of muscle—and they’re exposed more because he has so little body fat and less because he’s in any kind of fighting shape—and his chest rises hard and fast as he gulps down air.

“I’m real,” you promise, leaning over him to lick at the brutal scars that branch out from the metal grafted to his chest.  He shivers and tries to slip his remaining hand between your mouth and his skin, but you nip at his fingers until he desists.  “I’m really here, with you, and you’re with me.”

“Always,” he moans, hips arching as your hands travel further down.

“Barnes,” you pause, fingers hesitating just above his waistline. “If I do anything you don’t like, you tell me to stop and I will.”

“Fucking _don’t stop,”_ he pants, twisting the sheets in his hand until they threaten to tear. “I haven’t—God dammit, I’ll fuckin’ explode, I swear to God—”

“The mouth on you,” you smirk, flicking the button of his jeans open and tugging the zipper down.

“I’ll show you what this mouth can do in a minute,” he threatens, lifting his hips as you drag his pants off, taking his boxer-briefs with them because it's efficient and—

 _Well_ , you balk mentally, taking a good, long (and thick) look at him. _That is going to be a_ bit _of a challenge._   Your abdomen clenches involuntarily and the coil in your gut tightens that much more.  You exhale, and he thrusts once, shallow and strained, his eyes screwed shut.

“Easy,” you gentle. “I’ve got you, soldier.” 

You scoot down, tapping your fingers against his knees until he takes the hint and lets them fall open, making room for you to shimmy between.

“You—” he shudders, grunting as you stroke your hands up his thighs, then back down again. “You don’t gotta—”

“You’re not the boss of me,” you grin, leaning down and stretching out on all fours, looking up along the lean line of his torso as your mouth draws closer to the hard, weeping length of him.  He sits up, bracing himself on his one good arm, a shade off-kilter without the support of his left.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he swears, hair mussed, eyes dark with lust. “Look at you _._ ”

You wrap one hand around the base of his cock, remaining still as he tries—and fails—to swallow a strangled shout of surprise, hips bucking against your palm, seeking more pressure, more relief, more of whatever you’ll give. You press your free hand against his waist, stilling his movements before giving a tentative squeeze with the other.

“Please,” he groans, his entire body shaking with the effort it takes not to rut freely into your hand. “I need to—”

You stroke once and he curls forward, taking the sheets with him, before you slide wetted lips over the wide head and suck. He comes apart with a roar, scalding and tasting of the ocean, and you’ve never been so happy to let yourself drown.

* * *

Barnes has his arm slung over his eyes, still breathing hard as you settle down against him after crawling back up the length of his body.  He’s shaking, and you try not to stare at the wet tracks trailing across his cheeks.

“Hey,” you call softly, tugging at a damp curl of dark hair. “Talk to me. You okay?”

He lifts his arm up just enough to make eye contact and nods once. “Yeah,” he says. “Been… Been a while. I wasn’t allowed to—” He turns away, covering his eyes with his hand.

You kiss up along his shoulder blade, tracing patterns over the skin of his back as he composes himself.

“I wasn’t sure I could,” he finally says. “Worried they might have taken that from me, too. And I wanted—so much—with you. For you.”

“We’ll get ‘round to it,” you assure him. “There isn’t a time table for this. You don’t have any deadlines to meet, darling.”

“Darling?” he asks, dropping his hand from his face, unable to hide the little half-smile curling the edge of his lip upward.

“You have some other preferred pet name?”

He laughs and you drape yourself over him, tilting your head against his shoulder.

“Sweetheart, perhaps? Baby? Mmm, how about—” He flips over and pins you, and you can feel the hard, hot press of him against your stomach. “Fuck’s sake, Barnes, that was fast,” you moan, glancing down between you.

“Serum,” he grunts, his pupils dilated, tongue darting out between his teeth. “Or you. Probably you. Definitely you, doll.”

“What are you waiting for, then? Written invitation?” you tease, squirming rather suggestively. He bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood by the look of it, and shakes his head.

“I think I made you a promise,” he says, slipping off the bed before wrapping his arm around your waist and dragging you toward the edge.  He gets your legs around his shoulders, and keeps his right arm under you, lifting your hips up.

“Barnes,” you whine, reaching for him.  He leans forward and shivers when you rake your fingers through his hair, nails dragging against his scalp.

“Wanna get my mouth on ya,” he says, blue-grey eyes trained on you with an intensity that is almost overwhelming. “Wanna make you feel what I feel—”

“I do,” you whimper. “I swear, I do—”

He pulls his arm from beneath you, dropping your hips slightly, and spreads your legs wide, breathing hard as he ducks down, _so_ close.  His fingers brush against your lips, the rough pads lighting you up with electricity you swear you can taste.

“Oh my God,” you swear, turning your head to bite at the sheets bunched around your head. “James, please…”

He inhales harshly at the invocation of his first name, then presses his nose against your overheated skin, nudging your clit, the wide expanse of his tongue dragging fully across your aching cunt. You lose all sense of time as he licks into you, lazy and deep, pausing only to draw your hard nub into his mouth, teasing with a hint of teeth as he drives you past the point of coherency.

You shout when he presses a thick finger inside, barely processing the words that spill out of his mouth; praise and encouragement, promises—both sweet and depraved—of what he plans to do; how he wants to break you apart, untie everything that holds you together, and leave you a shaking, blissful mess.

“Almost there, beautiful,” he tells you, every line of your body strained, taut as a bowstring. Distantly, you wonder what he’d be like healthy and fit, and just as distantly, you’re fairly sure he’d fucking kill you. He adds another finger and you thrash wildly against the bed as he hooks them both, pressing, while his thumb circles your clit and he pants against your hip.

“Just a little more,” he grunts, twisting his fingers and you actually black out for a few seconds as you clench around him, coming harder than you thought possible from fingers and mouth alone.

He climbs back on the bed and gathers you into his lap. You feel boneless, the aftershocks of your orgasm still zipping through your nervous system, bright and beautiful, and it’s almost like flying.  He latches his mouth onto your right breast, palming its opposite as you slowly come down. You lean back, giving him more access, reaching down between you to touch him. He hisses and nips at you, releasing his hold temporarily to pull your head against his.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he whispers, trading breath back and forth as you both grind against each other.  He slides between your folds, the head of his cock nudging your clit over and over, sending delicious spikes of pleasure racing up your spine and twisting the coil in your belly ever tighter.  “You’re so hot inside,” he gasps, voice breaking at the end. “So wet. I want—I need you. Need to be—”

“Inside,” you groan, throaty and hoarse.

He needs no further encouragement, helping to lift you up as you balance over him.  The press of fevered, slick flesh against your entrance elicits another full-bodied shudder.  You sink down, slowly, sucking in your breath as his thick cock presses against your inner-walls, spreading you wide, laying you bare as white-hot pleasure rips through your body, setting every nerve ending alight, causing you to cry out as he inches forward.

 _“Nngh,_ fuck,” Barnes growls, shaking with the strain of holding back, of going slow as you adjust to him.  You lick your lips, struggle to catch your breath as you accept the entire iron-hard length of him, until—finally—he’s fully seated.

You whine, forehead pressed to his, holding on to him as if your life depends on it (it just might). You can’t ever remember feeling so full, trembling and wanting so badly to let him fuck up into you, wild and savage and perfect.  Barnes seals his mouth over yours, slow and languorous, his tongue moving against yours, breaths mingled.

He breaks away as you shudder around him, your inner muscles rippling, and he hardens that much more inside you.

“James,” you whisper against his mouth, raising yourself up as much as you can without separating from him completely.

“I can’t—” he starts, but then you drop back down, head tipped back, spine arching. He digs his fingers into your hip, snarling up at you as you start to draw away again.  Suddenly, you’re on your back as he tips you both over.  He drags both of your hands up above your head, holding them there so that you’re stretched out beneath him.

He grinds his hips against yours, setting off another volley of sparks along your frayed and frantic nerve endings. “Need to let go,” he rasps in your ear, voice having dropped an entire octave.  “God, you feel so good.”

As you had at the start of all this, you wrap your legs around his waist, taking him impossibly deeper, causing both of you to cry out as he slips forward a bit more.

“Can’t—” he says, staring wide-eyed at you, then where you’re joined. “I need—”

“Move!” you command, knowing full-well what he means and unable to explain that you want the same. Maybe later, when cobbling together that many words doesn’t seem like such a Herculean task. 

He draws back again, the drag of him against your sensitive flesh setting off a chain of uninterrupted curses until even those fail you and you’re reduced to a keening whine that leaves you flushed and shaking.

He snaps his hips forward, driving hard, a shout of his own muffled against your shoulder. He releases his hold on your wrists, reaching back to grip your leg, hitching it higher as he rocks forward, each time the head of his cock bottoming out, nudging another hidden cluster of nerves that overloads every synaptic connection you have until you swear you’ve been reduced to nothing but pure, distilled sensation. The heat and tension, the pleasure-pain you’re not sure there’s a word for, builds and builds, inexorably, threatening to destroy you completely. 

“James!” you cry out. His eyes lock with yours, both of you trembling and sweating, bodies rocking and being rocked in turn. Every muscle in his body seems devoted to this one purpose.  Without warning, his pace increases, his rhythm stutters.

“With me,” he manages, fingers squeezing the taut line of your leg where he still holds it against his side. “ _With me_.”

You nod once and he groans, dipping his head again and slamming home.  You scream, squeezing around him as your inner muscles contract, as endorphins and adrenaline and lightning race through your system.

He gives one final, ragged shout—your name, you think—and then locks up, rigid, flooding your insides with warmth, and he fucks through his orgasm, fucks _you_ through yours, even as every nerve in your body burns up, is reduced to ashes, your vision whiting out.

* * *

You spend the rest of the afternoon making up for lost time. Barnes takes you hard on your hands and knees before you even leave the bed; then against the desk-sculpture-thing; you attempt to make it to the bathroom to shower but you’re overcome and shove him down onto the floor, riding him until his eyes roll back in his head. 

Then, when you reach the shower, he lifts you up against the tile wall and fucks you with long, languid strokes, mouth firmly attached to your breasts. 

“Let’s never leave this room,” you murmur afterwards, curled around him on the bathroom floor, too tired to get up, and not entirely sure that you’d be able to focus on anything before being overwhelmed by the desire to have him inside again and wringing out another orgasm.

“Fine by me, doll,” he answers, eyes shut, fingers dragging through your wet hair. “I don’t think my legs work anymore, anyway.”

You laugh, turning into him. “You’re pretty good at that, you know,” you observe, tweaking one of his nipples (which, as it turns out, are very sensitive).

“I’ve been known to show a girl a good time,” he chuckles.

“Is that so?” you ask, mock-indignation dripping from your words. “Well aren’t you a regular Don Juan?"

He cracks his eyes open, studying your face for a long time.

“None of ‘em hold a candle to you. They were fun, but not the kind of fun that lasts, y’know?”

"How romantic," you snicker. "Do tell me more about how I rate compared to all the dames you shagged back in the day."

“Minx,” he laughs, and he leans down to kiss you. “That ain't what I meant."

"I know, it's just fun to watch you blush."

He smirks and then swallows thickly. "So, we didn’t exactly use a rubber or anything. I don’t have—No one’s brought it up and I’m not sure if Steve’s even got any for me to pinch, but—"

“Stop,” you giggle. “I can’t get pregnant unless I choose to, and I don’t get sick so we can't swap cooties either. Shapeshifter, remember?”

“It affects even that?” he asks, brows so far up his forehead they’ve practically merged with his hairline.

“Even that.”

“How?”

“You really in the mood for a shapeshifter biology lesson, Barnes?” you tease, sticking your tongue out at him. “Because I can and will bore you to tears.”

“I guess not,” he sighs, pulling you closer against him. “Is that, uh, is that something you want? Someday?”

“What, kids?” you ask.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not sure how I feel about ‘em, but I’m not sure how I feel about the Kardashians, either.  You—I’d imagine you might have given it some thought. Don’t most women—?”

“Some do,” you confirm, nodding your head. “And it’s not as though I haven't considered it. It’s just not a priority for me right now, that sort of internal debate. I want to get Ana straightened out at school, I need to find a residency program that will take me now after my sabbatical, there’s the team, you... The world is a crazy, damn-near inhospitable place. I don’t know if I have room in my head for one more thing to worry about.”

“Christ, my sisters used to talk about their future husbands and future kids all the time. What he’d do for a livin’, how many they’d have, their names, how they’d get a nice brownstone over near Park Slope, room to spread out, not like our walk-up.”

“You miss them?”

“The girls?” he sighs, hand tightening reflexively on your shoulder. “Every day. I should have—a brother is supposed to be there for his sisters, y’know? Keep the riff-raff from sniffing around, and set an example. I should have been there."

He runs his fingers up and down the bare skin of your arm, eyes a bit distant.

“We had fun together, and they liked Stevie, even though most of the neighborhood kids were pretty vicious when it came to him. I thought maybe one of the girls would take a shine to him one day and he'd end up my brother-in-law. Part of the family.” He laughs, but there’s no warmth to it. “Stupid.”

“I think it was a lovely dream to have,” you tell him, leaning up and kissing his jaw. “And your sisters were lucky to have you as a brother. I’m sure they thought about you often.”

“I hope not,” he sighs. “I hope they just moved on with their lives.”

“We can look all of that up, you know. I bet you have great-nieces and nephews still around, maybe even some of your sisters’ children. Once we have everything straightened out with the government—"

“No,” he says, and the way he says it leaves no room for argument. “If they want to meet me, I’ll do whatever they ask. But I’m not going to go bothering them, complicating their lives. You have any idea how fuckin’ strange it would be? Sitting with two generations of my family that are technically younger than I am, while I’m like this? _”_

“Okay,” you soothe. “Whatever you want. It’s your family.”

“I know you don’t mean to—" he rolls toward you, burying his head into the crook of your neck. “I don’t deserve you, doll. I really don’t.”

“What did I say about you not being the boss of me?” you laugh, scratching the back of his neck until he relaxes against you. “I’m not awarded to people based on some kind of point system. You didn’t win me. I’m choosing you, just as you’re choosing me. No more complicated than that.”

He groans and shifts his hips, and you are damn near dumbfounded as you watch his cock harden—again.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you giggle, feeling his smile against your skin. “I think you may have a medical condition, Barnes.”

“You’re a doctor,” he says, glancing up at you, his gaze heated and focused. "Fix me."

“Well,” you huff. “I did take an oath.”

* * *

Later (much later, but who’s keeping track?), you finally manage to get yourself cleaned up and dressed.  Barnes retreats to the bed, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes, utterly sated and unable to keep a smug smile from his lips.

“Going out?” he asks, watching as you pull on a pair of utilitarian boots. “I thought Stark put the Tower on lockdown.”

“He’ll let me out for this, not that he could actually stop me if I wanted to leave badly enough,” you explain.

“Can I ask where you’re going?”

“Gotta see a man about a dog,” you wink, tying the laces tight and tucking your black BDUs snug around your ankles. Even with the heavy-duty material shielding you from contamination, truth be told, you’d really rather be heading out in a hazmat suit.

Sewers are disgusting places after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED.
> 
> First attempt at smut. Uh. Be gentle?
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr: [Hereabouts!](http://cosmosisjane.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Update 5/31: Went back and addressed the "why isn't she growing scales instead of sitting there all awkward and naked?" issue. Sorry for the oversight! :O


	17. Chapter 17

 

* * *

 "Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance."

-Richard von Wiezsaecker

* * *

 

“Under no circumstances are you to leave this building without an escort,” Hill says, tapping away at her Stark-issue tablet.

“I assume I don’t need to remind you that I neither work for Tony Stark nor require so much as an unlocked door to actually leave,” you drawl, swiveling back and forth in the chair set before her desk. "I'm only sitting here because I was asked to be polite."

“You were shot in the face less than twenty-four hours ago,” she sighs, finally putting the tablet down. “Humor me.”

“Based on your refusal to provide more than a first name, we have to assume that this person you’re going to meet —Frank—is dangerous,” Romanoff adds, glancing at you from her adjacent chair.  She and Barton were summoned to this impromptu (and wholly unnecessary) meeting with the head of Stark’s security division as well.

“That depends,” you muse, staring up at the ceiling.

“On?”

“The severity of the crimes one has committed.”

“You’re like, what? Twelve years old?” Barton asks.

“Oh, this one has jokes,” you chuckle.

“I’m sayin’… Maybe don’t be so eager to run off on your own when you can take reinforcements. Adults operate in teams when they can.”

“Frank would blow up the sewers before allowing you two to get within shouting distance.”

“Oh yeah, sounds totally safe. Definitely go alone,” the archer huffs, looking to Natasha and Hill for support. “Who the fuck is this guy?”

“A valuable source of information,” you answer. “If shit is going down, Frank will have a bead on it, or he’ll know who to ask.”

“The problem remains; we cannot allow you to go off on your own. Not with the hornet’s nest that is HYDRA stirred up and spoiling for a fight,” Hill insists, settling back in her chair. “I can make a phone call to Professor Xavier if—”

“That’s your plan? You’re going to tattle on me if I don’t play by your rules?” you scoff. “Look.  If they go with me, they can’t _go with me_ , you understand? Not all the way, not to the actual meeting.”

“Do you even know where he is?” Hill asks.

“Last time his name came up, I heard he was working out of Hell’s Kitchen or planning to relocate there in the near future.”

“And this information came from…?”

“Confidential,” you snap.

Barton actually giggles, picking at the dirt under his fingernails. “Have we made you a member of the team yet?” he asks, still smirking and pointedly avoiding Natasha’s disapproving glare. “You’d fit right in.”

“It’s been suggested,” you scowl, returning your attention to Hill. “Do we have a deal? These two muppets escort me as far as the sewer entrance, then they stand by while I track my contact down and hopefully convince him to help identify our sniper from the hotel roof.”

Hill looks between Romanoff and Barton, both of whom shrug in unison. “Once they drop you off, you have two hours to complete your mission before I send them in to pull you out. I don’t care what you think this lunatic will do if he’s discovered.”

“Fine. Am I free to go now?”

“Of course,” the dark-haired woman smiles. “Stark Industries would never attempt to illegally detain a private citizen or prevent them from leaving the premises against their will.”

“Not without throwing enormous piles of money at them first,” you mutter, recalling the several hundred civilians being kept under lock-down in the Tower along with all of Stark’s staff.

“We wrote them checks, actually,” Hill corrects with a sly smile of her own. “I’ll call down to the garage for a vehicle.”

You roll your eyes and push out of your chair, leaving it spinning lazily behind you.

“We’ll meet you in the lobby,” Natasha says. “Barton and I need to suit up and hit the armory. Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”

“Copy that,” you sigh. “But do me a favor and tell Barton to leave the bow and arrows at home, yeah?”

“Why?” Romanoff asks, brows pulled together.

“In the event that you do need to launch a rescue, I’d rather not listen to Frank’s hysterical laughter right before we all die.” 

 

* * *

 

“So,” Clint says, sliding into the back of the SUV with you. He doesn’t elaborate further, choosing to let that single word hang in the air while he stares, waiting for you to take the bait.

“Ask me an actual question and I may respond with an answer.”

“Can you turn into an octopus?” he asks. Natasha groans from the driver’s seat, starting the truck and pulling out of the underground garage.

“You need to stop watching _Blue Planet_ when you can’t sleep, Clint,” she chides.

“An octopus,” you repeat.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “I think they’re neat.”

“Good lord. Yes, I can shapeshift into an octopus. Wouldn’t be particularly useful though, except perhaps to hide somewhere in the ocean," you tell him.

“That’s awesome,” Barton says, smacking the back of Natasha’s seat. “Makes me feel a little minor league, though. Well, more than usual.”

“Speak for yourself,” Natasha answers.

“Could you imagine if we’d had someone like her in Kiev?” he asks. “Or São Paolo? Would have had those missions wrapped in hours.”

“With fewer casualties,” Romanoff agrees, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror and catching your own in the reflection.

“So that’s how this entire ride is going to go?” you ask, slumping in your seat.

“It’s been known to work,” Barton smiles, tilting his head toward the former KGB assassin.

“Answer is still no. I get enough grief at home for spending as much time down here with you lot as it is. Not going to twist the knife by splitting my loyalties in an official capacity.”

“Where exactly are we taking you once we get to Hell’s Kitchen?” Natasha asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“Get me west of Tenth Avenue, near the Hudson Yards. I can access the sub-surface tunnels and sewers from the Amtrak corridor. I’ll work my way east from there.”

“Port Authority or MTA gonna be a problem?” Barton asks. “We can make some calls.”

“No. They’re used to runaways and homeless types coming and going. No one will bat an eye at one more transient.”

“You’re awfully well-dressed for a hobo,” he observes.

“Worst case, they’ll assume I’m some kind of urban explorer off to photograph the city’s ghoulish underbelly.”

“This is your rodeo,” he says, settling back in his seat. “You call the shots.”

“Mmm,” you hum, tapping your fingers against the door panel.

After several minutes of uninterrupted silence, Barton clears his throat. “Man, this neighborhood is still wrecked from the Chitauri invasion. For a minute there, the property values were so low I was thinkin’ about buying in.”

“With what money?” Natasha asks. “You spent all of your inheritance on that rattrap in Bed-Stuy.”

“I have other investments,” he protests weakly. “It isn’t all pizza and trick arrows, y’know.”

“Better not be,” she answers. “What with you already planning on a third.”

“They want for nothing,” Barton sniffs. “Except more time with me, I s’pose.”

You tune out the rest of their banter, not in the mood to try to figure out what the conversation is about and—quite honestly—not that interested in the first place.

Instead, your thoughts turn to the last time you’d actually spoken to Frank face-to-face.  He’d been in bad shape, but that was nothing new.  Pretty much every interaction—stretching all the way back to your initial meeting—was due to Frank’s penchant for collecting bullets and lacerations as if they were going out of style (and there’d been that one time the knife had still been inside, the serrated edge caught on bone).  You didn’t speak much outside of explaining what you were doing, and why, and _yes, Frank, now would be a good time to put the Wild Turkey down, you sodding alcoholic._

It isn’t a friendship by any means. Frank doesn’t have friends, just a rough collection of people he finds useful on occasion, who he doesn’t hesitate to use if need be; all of which is perfectly fine by you because you have absolutely no qualms about using him right back.

That last time had been pretty bad though. Collapsed lung, multiple penetrating wounds, crushed pelvis, and his left hand shattered almost beyond repair.  It had taken a week’s worth of work to get him stable, and another week of scolding and restraints to keep him confined to a bed while his body healed. He really needed to be in a full-body cast for six months at a minimum, _in a hospital_ (and why do you always have to stress that to people?), and then undergo years of physical and occupational therapy, but any time you started to suggest as much he’d reach for his Benelli M3 and you _shut the hell up_ because having an entire limb blown off is not an experience you particularly enjoy.

He’d been fighting a fever through most of his convalescence, and no matter what meds you pumped into his system, he continued to burn, low and steady, spiraling deeper and deeper into old memories better left forgotten, buried, and among the dead.

 _Maria_.

He called out for her, over and over; for her and for their children. He screamed; rictus grin pulled so tight against his teeth he cut his lips, spat blood, and thrashed against the zip ties and braided nylon rope that kept him from completely tipping himself out of the cot.

_Maria, Maria, Maria!_

You'd put together most of the story with what he let slip, though the details tended to get lost in his delirium; a family murdered, a life destroyed, and all of it his own fault for allowing it to happen (or so he seemed to believe). His sorrow boiled over into rage, spitting hot and sizzling where it touched the more tender parts of your own soul. Froth flew from his lips as he promised bloody vengeance on the people who had taken those precious lives from him, from the world, and you saw yourself in his fury, remembered the taste of blood in your mouth, the base animal pleasure of killing the one who would have killed you, who would have killed those you loved. How  _right_ it had felt, even as the horror of what you'd done came crashing down around your ears. It had been justice, if only the must brutal kind. 

Frank continued to deteriorate despite your every effort to keep him alive; fighting you even though he wasn’t fully aware of your presence, and short of stabbing him with a syringe full of sedatives (and you weren’t sure his heart could take that), nothing you came up with was able to calm him down or draw him out of his nightmares.

Nothing, that is, save one thing.

It had been cruel in its way, but you were at peace with that so long as it worked.  Once the transformation was complete, once he recognized the face you wore as the one he loved, he’d gone easy, compliant, sweet and soft, so eager to please, to make her smile, and to hear her say she was proud of him. He’d asked for the kid, but you couldn’t justify taking the charade that far, and had remained in the dead woman’s skin just long enough for Frank’s fever to break.

You left him a small pharmacy’s worth of steroids, pain-killers, antibiotics, and a few anti-virals, along with relevant instructions and a brief note: 

_FRANK,_

_Stay hydrated (WITH WATER),_ _and try to keep off your feet as much as possible. Call if you need to, or reach out to Weasel if you don’t want to be that direct. He’s Wade’s man, but you can trust him to deliver a message._

_Be safe, you nutter._

In the years since, he’s maintained strict radio silence. All the information you have on his current whereabouts has been gleaned from the assortment of anti-hero misfits you occasionally patch up or run into while working with the team.  Many of them aren't the kind of people the rest of the team would openly associate with, but the X-Men aren’t in the business of policing the superhero or vigilante communities—not unless someone does something catastrophically stupid or violent—so you've managed to dredge a pretty deep pool to draw help from. You're still considered part of the Goody Two-Shoes Brigade, but you've got just enough piss and vinegar in you to be taken seriously when you need to be.

Based on what you know of him, you figure Castle has kept to the same pattern he’s favored in the past; maintaining a base of operations in some stinking, fetid sewer, booby-trapping every entrance and exit, and remaining on the lookout for uninvited guests snooping around. Locked and loaded, crazy as a shithouse rat.

“That’s a serious look you’re wearing,” Barton says, interrupting your protracted train of thought. “Anything you want to share with the rest of the class?”

“Only that I’m not exactly looking forward to this,” you grumble.

 “You positive you don’t want us to tag along?” he asks. “Promise we won’t embarrass you in front of your friend.”

“Either of you secretly immortal or impervious to bullets?” you ask.

“Nope,” Barton answers, shaking his head. “How ‘bout you, Nat? You been holding out on me?”

“Negative, Ghost Rider,” she says, making a quick right turn through a busy intersection.

“Then yeah, I’m positive.” 

 

* * *

 

The tunnels are, as anticipated, the stuff of nightmares (your nightmares, specifically). It’s not like you can pick up any diseases, parasites, or infections, but the thought of what you’re slogging through, the name of the things _squishing_ under your boots, and the outrageous stink of the place makes your skin crawl all the way up to your scalp.

And you haven’t even made it to the sewer lines yet.

_Fuck you, Frank. Fuck you right up your pinched, pickled asshole._

You pass by clumps of homeless men and women, micro-tribes gathered around trashcans smoking with burning garbage, their ramshackle huts assembled from pieces of broken wood, discarded cubicle panels, shopping carts, soiled tarps, and cardboard scraps, all lining the walls of the tunnel. The shelters are ingenious, in their way, and you can’t help but admire the resourcefulness of the people who put them together. It takes a great deal of ingenuity to survive on the edge of civilization like this, and the animal part of your brain takes note.

No one pays you much attention, though a few voices raise an octave or two; warnings instructing you to keep your distance. _This is mine_ , the voices say, garbled by the bounce-back echo effect of the tunnel’s acoustics. _Stay away_.

You keep your head down, keep your hands at your sides and visible to anyone watching. It’s the least threatening posture you can assume while upright and walking, and you hope it translates. 

You make it past the shanty town, deeper into the older, abandoned tunnels where the vagrants haven’t spread yet. The standing water is deeper here, the rats more numerous, and the shadows longer and darker. The occasional clatter and squeal of trains rumbling by on neighboring active tracks makes your ears twitch. You move from tunnel to tunnel, using the access corridors that connect them, avoiding the work crews that patrol the functioning lines checking for any faults or weaknesses that might require repair.

What you need now is a way into the lower sewer tunnels. You reach out with your senses, listening for the rush of moving water, trying to discern the particular scent of organic waste from the more industrial stink of the nearby train yard.

In the end, it’s your eyes that spot the entrance, aided by a helpful sign mounted on the concrete wall pointing the way down an adjacent passageway, along with the standard “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY” warning emblazoned in chipped red enamel.

You take a deep breath; force yourself to ignore the acrid taste the air leaves sticking to your tongue, and head in the direction indicated.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t even want to know,” you sigh, studying the naked man squirming against his bonds, the chair he’s tied to creaking and threatening to tip over.

“Then don’t ask,” Frank grumbles, tapping your shoulder with the muzzle of his rifle, indicating that you should turn and keep walking.

“Okay, I lied. I do want to know. What’s this one done?”

“Pedophile,” the older man answers. “Mr. Nguyen here has a thing for little boys—”

You grunt, scowling at the bound man as he shakes his head and pleads his innocence from behind the wad of trash stuffed behind his teeth.

“—under the age of four,” Frank finishes, before thrusting one booted foot against the nearest leg of the chair, sending it and Nguyen toppling over into the muck.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

That’s enough for you. Frank’s one-man crusade against what he considers the world’s “filth” is pathological, but that pathology is very rigid and his standards are exacting. Anyone who finds themselves tied to a chair in The Punisher’s den, facing certain death, undoubtedly deserves to be there. There’s a part of you that feels a brief swell of pity for Nguyen, and it’s the same part that believes everyone deserves a fair trial, competent representation, and equal treatment under the law.

But you also know how seriously fucked up the system is; that people like Nguyen walk away unscathed an awful lot of the time, and even when they do get locked up, there’s usually a decent chance for parole with good behavior and a few strategically greased palms.

If Frank were threatening a guy over a dime bag or a snatched purse, you’d protest, maybe even get in between them. But this? This you will lose very little sleep over, if any.

“Why are you here?” Frank demands, shouldering past you as you reach what must be his workshop. There are a few long tables lined up along one curving wall, a collection of firearms in various states of assembly spread out on across them. Banged up cabinets are stacked against the opposite side of the tunnel, all of them chained and padlocked, and probably full of _more_ guns and compatible ammunition. Further back, a door to what looks like a small maintenance room is open and you can just make out the shape of a cot and footlocker inside.

You sigh and take another long look around, letting him wait on you to answer. Frank’s choice of location leaves a lot to be desired, but it’s not quite as bad as you’d imagined. This part of the sewer system is old, and therefore broader than the more modern installations, having been hand dug back when the city was young, designed so that several men could walk abreast without their shoulders touching. The bricks arch in seemingly infinite rows overhead, on and on and on. The floor slopes gently down, a trickle of water making its way back toward the main line. Frank has built a massive platform that stretches over the trench, from one side of the tunnel to the other.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I think it’s an improvement over the last place you laid your head,” you finally reply.

“You never saw the last place I laid my head,” Frank sneers. “I move around.”

“Fair enough,” you sigh, turning slowly on your heel to face him. “How’ve you been?”

“Busy.”

“Has everything healed since our last meeting? Any problems?”

He grunts again and turns his back to you, dropping the rifle he’d greeted you with about a half mile into your trek through the sewers onto one of the tables. “You didn’t come here to check up on me,” he rumbles, finally turning around and leaning back against the workbench. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at you like he’s sizing you up for a fight. Like he’s angry. With you.

 _Shit_.

“Um,” you swallow thickly, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. “I take it you remember—"

“Yeah.”

“I thought maybe the fever had—"

“No.”

“Frank,” you start, taking a step forward, embarrassed and ashamed for what you’d done to him all those years ago. “I was only trying to—"

“If I thought for a second you’d done it for any other reason than because you felt you _had_ to, I’d have fed you a couple M67 grenades back there,” he thumbs over his shoulder toward the yawning mouth of the tunnel, “and then thrown whatever was left into an incinerator.”

“That’s… disturbingly specific.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think,” he replies, his voice flat and deep and cold as the Arctic Ocean.

“You were dying,” you offer, wincing at how reedy your voice sounds in your own ears. “And you’re so bloody stubborn, wouldn’t listen to a thing I was saying, wouldn’t sit still, not even for stitches. You kept breaking things, ruining splints and pulling your IV line out, and I just—"

“What the fuck do you want? I have work to finish here,” he interrupts, gesturing at Nguyen, who is desperately trying to wiggle free of his restraints but only managing to drag the rickety chair further into the muck.

“I need a favor.”

“This have anything to do with the Village sniper?”

“So you heard,” you sigh, joining him at the table.  He points at a pile of newspapers nearby, stacked almost hip-high, moldy at the bottom and not much better at the top.

“Read about it this morning,” he says, looking at you sidelong, jaw clenching tight. “Wasn’t me.”

“I never thought it was,” you answer, offering a weak smile. It’s actually kind of endearing that he was worried you might have suspected him of such a thing. You wonder what that means about how he categorizes you in his head; if you’re more than just someone he might find useful in a tight spot.

“What the fuck are you doing hanging around those people for?”

“You have something against Captain America?”

“No, not him,” he says with a vehemence that sort of startles you. “Captain Rogers is good people, one of the best. But the other one, Romanoff, she’s trouble. And Tony Stark is—" He just shakes his head, eyes gone hard.

“He’s an asshole, but not without a few redeeming qualities,” you interject. “I had him pegged as a self-absorbed prat, but he’s not what you’d expect based on his public persona. Hidden depths and all that.”

“You sleeping with him?”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

He smirks then glances over your shoulder towards Nguyen, who has once again started intermittently sobbing and crying for help in spite of the gag. “Who was the target?” he asks, still watching his captive, one hand drifting down to touch the knife strapped to his outer thigh. “Is the Captain okay?”

“He’s fine, he wasn’t even there when we came under fire. I took the bullet, but I wasn’t the intended target.”

“Romanoff,” he says, then shrugs. “Long list of people who would love to see her dead.”

“Not her either, not really. She just got in the way, same as me, and then had the poor luck to find herself in the guy’s crosshairs.”

“And you saved her.”

“I intercepted the bullet with my skull and most of my brain, yes.”

“You’re an idiot,” he grumbles. “So who was he after?”

“I can’t actually say,” you wince. “But—!”

“Fuck off,” he pushes away from the workbench and stalks over to Nguyen, righting the chair before cracking the captive man across the face. “Another peep out of you, you fucking pervert, and I’ll remove the gag just so I can cut out your tongue and feed it to you.”

“It’s not really important who the target was,” you argue, remaining behind at the workbench. “I need information about the shooter. Like who the hell he is, for starters.”

“I’m not a mercenary,” Frank throws over his shoulder as he drags the chair—with Nguyen in it—back up onto the platform.

“I didn’t say anything about hunting the man down,” you sigh. “Or killing him. I need a name. An alias, at the very least.”

“Other than the fact that he got the drop on you and busted your braincase open, what do you know about him? Anything?”

“He's HYDRA, or an associate of theirs. Stark’s people managed to dig one of the bullets out of the wall he hit while we made our escape,” you tell him. “The ballistics report came back a match for an M21 SWS. Standard NATO rounds.”

Frank nods, “It’s what I’d use.”

“Noted,” you reply drily. “We put together some composite satellite images from when he was shooting at us from the hotel roof.”

You unzip your jacket and pull the unmarked envelope from one of the concealed pouches on the inside, offering it to Castle with no further preamble. He accepts without question and pulls the pictures out, flipping through them and then shrugging.

“Don’t recognize him. Should probably pick a different insignia though. That one’s mine.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along if I ever find him,” you huff. “Can you look into it for me? You have access to lower circles than I do, people who might have heard something.”

He scowls, apparently insulted, and tosses the stack of pictures onto a nearby desk. “I’ll ask around,” he says, but you can tell he’s just paying you lip-service. Maybe you should have let him believe that Cap had been the target after all.

“I saved your life,” you remind him, knowing full-well just how thin the ice beneath your feet is.

“Didn’t ask you to,” he answers, but the steel has gone out of his voice. “I don’t do favors.”

“Then I’ll buy your help if that’s what it takes.”

“You forget when I told you that I'm not a merc?”

“Aware,” you snap. “But there has to be something you want that you can’t get on your own. Maybe a lair that's  _above ground_ for once, or—"

“You know what I want,” he says, eyes shifting away from yours.  “The _only_ thing I want.”

You blink stupidly, your shoulders hunching all the way up to your ears. “I’m at a loss here. Give us a hint.”

“Be her.”

“Her?”

He turns back around and pulls one of the desk drawers open, tearing through its contents until he finds what he’s looking for and passes the small rectangle of glossy paper to you.

You unfold the photo, smoothing out the crease, trying not to think about how often he must take it out, how it smells faintly of whiskey, or how the surface around her face is dulled as if it were touched too often.

“I can’t,” you rasp, looking up at him then back at the picture of his dead wife.

“This is my price,” Frank says, his voice pitched low in an attempt to cover up the desperation that somehow manages to bleed through. He steps over to one of the work tables and busies himself with whatever equipment he has stacked there, leaving you to consider your options.

“You know it wouldn’t be real,” you tell him. “I’d only _look_ like—"

“It’s this or get the fuck out.”

You look down at the picture again, holding it as gently as you would a butterfly, as if it might disintegrate in your hands at any moment. “I have two conditions,” you tell him, feeling an uncomfortable lump forming in your throat. “And they’re non-negotiable.”

“I’m listening,” he answers, turning his head slightly toward you.

“First, you keep your hands to yourself,” you choke out, hating the heat rising in your cheeks. “I mean it, Frank. I will leave you a fucking eunuch if—"

“That’s fair,” he says without a hint of sarcasm. “And the second?”

“You never ask me to do this again.”

He hesitates this time, looking down at his hands and at whatever bit of machinery they’re holding. His brow furrows slightly, making him look older than he is.

“Well?” you ask, offering the photo back to him, suddenly feeling as if you’ve held on to it for too long. Strange, the things that get under your skin even when you’re about to do something supremely creepy.

“Yeah, sure,” he finally says, before abandoning the work bench and walking back over to Nguyen. “Let me take out this trash first.”

For a second, you’re worried he’s going to kill the man right in front of you. It’s one thing not to have a problem with the _concept_ of what Frank does, but you wouldn’t exactly queue for a front row seat to an execution either. To your relief, Castle simply grabs the back of Nguyen’s chair and drags him across the platform towards what passes for a bedroom. He hurls the bound man inside and slams the door shut, then locks it behind him.

He stalks over to you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He takes the still-proffered photo from you, and folds it carefully along the existing crease.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.

The change is quick; people are easy to imitate. It’s all superficial, all edifice; slightly higher cheekbones, fewer melanin cells in the irises, a few inches taller, more rounded hips. Stretch this, pinch that, shuffle a protein chain here, rearrange a few amino acids there. The amount of genetic variation from person-to-person, even people whose ancestors haven’t crossed paths since the great migration out of Africa, is so infinitesimal, it’s almost biologically irrelevant.

You finish the transformation in a matter of seconds, and you can see the weight lift from his shoulders, can see the exact moment when the careful control that colors all his movements with a kind of robotic precision evaporates, and he is as he was.  _Before._

"Hey baby,” you smile, your voice no longer your own.

“ _Maria_ ,” he breathes. “I’ve missed you so much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry and I love you and also I am so, so sorry.
> 
> ...
> 
> Did I mention that I love you?
> 
> *ducks*


	18. Interlude in G Major: Shovels and Dirt

* * *

 

Mama never told ‘em there’s a devil in me.

I got a mouth full of rotten and a heart full of greed.

Cowboy hats and crooked teeth,

with a six-shooting pistol just out of my reach. 

I got a head full of darkness and darkness is good,

‘cause if we all die young, then we don’t get hurt. 

Shovels and dirt, shovels and dirt…

Well it ain’t worth living if you don’t get hurt.

  

* * *

 

 

While She spins fairytales for monsters in their subterranean lairs, he dreams.

He’s sitting in his mother’s kitchen, at the lovingly polished wood table that had come with them all the way to Brooklyn from Illinois. His chest aches at the sight of her, of the clever, kind woman he’d never really said goodbye to, who he knows is long-dead, as she stands with her back to him washing dishes in the sink.

Everything looks the same as he left it the day he shipped off to Europe, to the front; the small, tidy kitchen kept immaculate with regular scrubbing and smelling faintly of Sunbrite cleaning solution, and past the kitchen he can see inside the sitting room, where the well-worn couch Steve used to sleep on still resides, awash in sunlight streaming in from the windows. Dust particles catch the light, drifting through the air and giving everything a golden, otherworldly glow.

“Ma,” he manages, feeling an uncomfortable lump forming in his throat.

“Elbows off the table, Jimmy,” she replies, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

“I’m dreaming,” he wonders aloud. This isn’t like the other dream of Brooklyn, not like any of the nightmares he usually has. It’s more solid. There’s a narrative to it, a logic, and that disturbs him more than the choking rain or the flashes of memory from the missions that haunt him most.

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”

“Poe,” he laughs, too loud in his own ears. He presses his palms against the grain of the tabletop, willing himself to remember this when he wakes, even if it isn’t real. “First time I see you in seventy years and you quote _Poe_ to me?”

She turns to face him, a gentle smile on her lips. “How’ve you been, son?”

“That’s—” and the words won’t come despite how badly he wants to tell her about everything that happened, about everything that was done to him. He wants to cry into her lap as she strokes his hair like she used to when he was little, but the dream won’t cooperate so he soaks up the warmth of her phantom presence and nurses his wounds with it. He supposes he should be grateful, so he is.

“You’ve walked a hard road, I know,” she says, pulling out the chair next to his and sitting down. She’s smaller than he remembers, with thick streaks of grey in her hair and lines around her eyes and mouth. “You’ve done terrible things.”

“Not anymore,” he assures her. “I was lost for a long time, but they found me. _She_ found me.”

“Your English girl,” she nods. “Your father would have found that amusing, to say the least.”

George Barnes had been a proud Irish-American. Once, he’d boasted that there were “no damned English” in his family, and Winifred had laughed, had reminded him that his surname was English in origin, and that her own father had been Protestant and likely counted quite a few landed, titled English folk in his lineage. George had fumed for a week.

“She makes it easier, being there. Not being here,” he replies, feeling as though he needs to defend Her.

“Careful. Anchors have a way of dragging us down, Jimmy,” she says. “And the waters you tread are deep.”

“I’ll keep us both afloat,” another voice chimes, as smooth, naked arms snake around his neck. Anyone else would have gotten a knife in the eye for touching him like that unannounced, but not Her. Tiny opalescent scales run in wild patterns across Her skin where he reaches up to touch Her with his living hand.

“You’re here,” he sighs, relaxing the tight line of his shoulders. “You’re back.”

“No,” his savior teases, lips so close to his ear they skim the surface of his skin. “I’m still far, far away. Still dancing with the Devil.”

“But you’re _here_ ,” he insists, as if that should somehow make sense to Her the way it does to him.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" his mother asks, but something in the air suddenly shifts and he knows She is gone, that someone else has entered the dreamscape.

"That would be lovely, Winifred," a man's voice answers and, as if by reflex, he immediately picks up the dull butter knife from his place setting, holding it in a white-knuckle grip.

"Pierce," he growls, shoving back from the table, falling into a fighting stance, testing the weight and balance of the pathetic knife. What he wouldn't give for one of his Gerbers. Fuck, a fish-knife would be better than this. With a flush of shame, he realizes he’s leading with his left, as if the metal arm was still there to shield him. The Secretary notices and is thoroughly amused judging by the raised eyebrow and upward twist of his thin lips.

"Jim, stop that," his mother scolds, shoving him back toward the chair and plucking the utensil from his clenched fist. "That's no way to speak to your father."

It’s as if she’d hit him; the sudden flare of pain, the air punched from his chest. _My father?_

"Take a seat, son," Pierce chuckles, as smug and self-assured as he ever was in life.

"Get out of this house," he warns. "You don't belong here. You're dead."

“I can testify to that,” Natasha says, strolling into the kitchen wearing a ratty bathrobe and running a towel through her hair. “I was there when Nick popped him.”

“You think what you did washed any of that red out, Romanova?” Pierce asks, leaning against the table and tugging at the sleeves of the suit that doesn’t quite fit him. It’s one of George’s, his Sunday best.

Natasha gives him the finger and retreats into the other room. She sits cross-legged on the floor and produces a deck of tarot cards from somewhere and begins to shuffle them. She looks younger than he remembers, the way she did when her name was Natalia and she still dreamed of dancing at the Novosibirsk and the Bolshoi, before they gave her to him to remake in his image. In _their_ image.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Barnes. Found your way back to the only people who would take you in, got rid of the controls we built into the arm, even convinced Stark to take the entire prosthetic off,” he says, motioning to the stump of his left shoulder.  “But I gotta say, the best thing you’ve done so far is find _Her_ for us.”

Both men watch as She re-enters the room, staring at Pierce with bird-bright amber eyes, all sharp teeth and raised hackles; a predator brimming with the potential for terrible violence.

“I mean, just _look_ at Her. We were so focused on the serum and building an army of super soldiers, of bringing Rogers to heel, and the whole time someone like Her was out there in the world, just waiting to be found.”

“I’ll have your guts for garters,” She hisses. “I’ll tear your fucking castle down around your ears and salt the earth upon which it stood.”

Pierce laughs and retrieves his tea cup. “We’re going to do amazing things together, young lady.”

The table is flipped over and he’s on Pierce in a flash, picks him up by the throat, hauls him up until his head almost hits the ceiling.

“Jimmy!” his mother shrieks, her own cup of tea shattering on the floor, the delicate china reduced to powder.

“You will stay away from Her,” he says, voice surprisingly even. The statement is a fact, not a request or a suggestion. “You will not touch Her. Not ever.”

“I’m _dead_ , son. But cut off one head,” Pierce rasps. “Two more and two more and two more.”

“Put him down, Barnes,” She says, stepping into his line of sight before moving to the table where it lies against the counter, toppled and surrounded by broken china. She rights it and takes a towel from the sink to wipe the surface clean. “I’m sorry about the mess, Mrs. Barnes.”

“That’s quite all right. Nothing that can’t be mended,” his mother replies, retrieving a broom from the small pantry and continuing to clean up.

He drops Pierce and turns away, reminding himself that this is just a dream, that he’s still sleeping in Her bed, waiting for Her to get back to him. The real Pierce, the dead one, has no idea that She exists. She’s safe.

“Just a matter of time, _Soldat_. She hangs around you long enough, we’re bound to find Her,” Pierce says. “What will you do when that happens?”

“Already told you what will happen if you get within biting distance,” She interjects, draping the soiled dishtowel over the edge of the sink. Something ripples across her skin, the patterns there changing, and then She shakes her head and joins Natasha on the sitting room floor.

“Wicked tongue on that girl,” his mother mutters. “Not ladylike at all.”

“We can fix that,” Pierce assures her. “Right, Soldier?”

He stumbles back, the fingers of his remaining hand tearing at the muzzle covering half his face. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, and he can’t get it off, can’t breathe. He blinks and he’s back in the chair, only it isn’t the right one, it isn’t something that was ever in his mother’s house, it’s wrong, all wrong.

“Wipe him,” Pierce snarls. “And start over.”

He struggles, tries to sit up, commands himself to wake and then Pierce is laughing again, and he’s sitting in a regular wooden chair, pulled up to the edge of the table like nothing happened. The muzzle is gone. He gasps and shakes and wants to run from this place and never return.

Everyone else carries on undisturbed.

“Tell me my fortune, Widow,” She says from the other room, facing Natasha. The robed woman complies, pulling the cards that jump from the deck and arranging them face down on the floor.

“The Chariot,” Natasha says, flipping the first card over. “Two of Wands. The Tower, upright.”

“That matters?”

Natasha shrugs. “Maybe. One more.”

“The suspense is killing me,” She giggles.

Natasha flips the fourth card and both women go silent and still. Then, after a long moment, She turns to look at him. “What do you know? _Death_.”

Everyone except for him finds this hilarious. They all laugh like old friends, and Natasha gathers up the cards and sets them on fire, pinching them by their corners as the flames turn the images to ash.

 “Have you ever ejected from an aircraft?” Pierce asks once the laughter dies down.

“No,” She says, shaking Her head. “I volunteered, but they rejected me. Besides, ejecting is—statistically—a bad idea.”

Pierce snorts and stirs a newly manifested cup of tea. “Oh?”

“Probably. I’ve parachuted out of a number of aircraft into a number of places,” She answers with a shrug of Her naked shoulders, brushing the bits of burnt paper into a neat pile on the floor. “Mitzvahs, parties, things like that.”

“Really?”

“Of course not,” She smirks. “I got all my scars because I’m a wooden roller coaster aficionado.”

Natasha finishes burning the last card and wipes her hands on her robe. She cants her head at the other woman, as if seeing Her for the first time. “Hey, are you on Twitter?”

“Social media is the death of the colloquial landscape and of the English language; institutions upon which I have tenderly placed a high premium,” She answers, scratching at Her scales. “So, no.”

“I have five Twitter identities.”

She scowls and stands up, padding back into the kitchen. “What for?”

“I anonymously attack people on political forums,” Natasha answers.

“I’ll take ejection,” She deadpans, locking eyes with Pierce as if they’re sharing some secret joke. He smiles back at her.

“She’s not for you,” Pierce tells him, sliding a handgun across the table. “Look at Her. She’s a miracle. A thousand years ago She would have been worshiped as a deity.”

“I can protect Her,” he counters, staring at the weapon. “If I can just—”

“You can’t,” Pierce argues. “You won’t. You’ll get her killed. Think of the cards. They don’t lie.”

“Listen to your father,” his mother reprimands.

“He’s not my goddamned—”

“Aloof as a soapstone statue,” Pierce interrupts, watching as the miracle paces around the perimeter of the kitchen, Her eyes locked on his throat. “Pairing her nails while you fail. We could a use a woman like that.”

“I told you to stay the fuck away from Her,” he spits, grabbing the pistol and leveling it at the Secretary’s head. He pulls the trigger.

 _Click_. 

_Click. Click. Click._

“You really think I’d give you a loaded gun?” Pierce asks. “You’re smarter than that.”

“He is,” Natasha agrees, suddenly at the Secretary’s side. “Thankfully, I brought my own.”

The report from her Glock sounds like a cannon, and Pierce jerks hard to the side as the bullet tears through his skull, his brain, and then back out the other side in a gory spray of red. Winifred is screaming in the corner, trying to cram herself into the pantry, and she only screams louder when Pierce tries to stand, half his head a smoking crater.

“You fucking _bitch_ ,” he slurs.

“No,” Natasha smirks. “That’s the other one.”

From out of nowhere, as if conjured by magic, an enormous gray mastiff lunges at Pierce, knocking him to the floor. He screams, then chokes, and then all that can be heard are his legs drumming against the floor as the dog tears him apart.

Finally, mercifully, everything falls quiet. His mother has disappeared, and snow begins to drift into the kitchen. He turns and looks, and where the sitting room once was there now stretches a vast forest, covered in snow.

She steps away from the corpse, returned to Her human form, and wipes Her bloodied mouth on her arm, shameless.  Natasha takes Her hand and both women walk into the cold, gray landscape.

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before,” Widow says, ankle-deep in snow. “We have to go. He’s out there, and we need to find him.”

“You can’t come with us,” She says, the pearlescent scales spreading thicker across her skin, darkening to the color of old leather, crocodilian and tough as elephant hide. “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are, at best, shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”

“I don’t understand,” he says, stumbling after them, but where they walk light-footed across the snow, he sinks, gasping at the shock of cold. “Where are you going?”

“Stay,” She says. “You have to trust me.”

Before he can protest, the earth swallows him up and the darkness pours into him until there isn’t room for anything else, until he can’t breathe or move or _think_ or—

“Barnes!”

He wakes suddenly, shouting, and swings his arm at the fuzzy shape of the person holding him down, trying to keep his head under the—

“Barnes! Bucky, wake up! It’s me, no don’t do that—Good _grief!_ ” She’s climbed on top of him, putting all her weight on his chest to hold him still. “You bloody hit me again and I’ll hit back.”

“What?” He blinks up at her, looks to the side and recognizes the room. Her room. “We’re… This is Stark Tower.”

“Yes,” she sighs, leaning back and releasing her grip on his arm and shoulder. “You all right? You were shouting.”

“Christ,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “Nightmare. Sort of.”

“Sort of,” she parrots, incredulous.

“Some parts were nice,” he groans, catching sight of her bloody lip. “Fuck, I hit you?”

As if on cue, the wound closes and she licks the leftover blood clean from her skin. “Only a little. I should have been more careful. No one’s fault.”

“I hit you,” he repeats, reaching out to touch her, to make sure she’s really there. “That’s exclusively and undeniably my fault.”

“Thirty lashes and a dozen Hail Marys,” she smirks, leaning down to plant a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll let you swap the lashes for community service if you like. Side note, the community is me and we are in desperate need of servicing.”

He sighs and grants her a half-smile.

“I’m adorable, I know,” she laughs. “It’s okay. You can say it. I won’t let it go to my head, promise.”

“You’re in a good mood,” he notes, running his hand up her arm as his heart rate continues to slow down and the anxiety crawling up his throat fades.

“Actually,” she says, exhaling long and slow before rolling off of him and taking her place at his side. “I had a rather shitty day made that much worse by the fact that it passed largely a fucking sewer.”

“Did you talk to that guy about his dog?” he asks.

“What?”

“You said—”

“Oh, no,” she snickers. “Just a saying; _Going to see a man about a dog_. No, I, ah, I went looking for an old contact. Found him, too. He’s going to look into what happened the other night. The sniper. He may be able to find us some decent intel.”

“So then why the shitty day?”

“My guy,” she mutters, tucking her head against his chest, fingers tracing small circles against his skin. He glances down and sees that her eyes are a bit too wet for his liking. “He’s… Very bad things happened to him and—He asked me to do something that he thinks will make him feel better, but it won’t. It’ll make things worse, but it’s what he wanted. The _only_ thing he wanted, turns out. I just hope I didn’t do too much damage in the long run. Poor bastard.”

“Is he like me?”

“No. He’s way more fucked up than you, Barnes.”

He smiles into her hair, not sure why that makes him relax further or why he finds it funny. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Doll,” he teases.

“I know,” she moans theatrically, leaning over to nip at his chin. “But all the good ones are _gay_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
>  Hi.
> 
> (PS: There is a lot of foreshadowing in this chapter, and honestly, I was very heavy-handed with it OH WELL.)
> 
> (PPS: SORRY.)


	19. Chapter 19

* * *

“Look where we will, the inevitable law of revelation is one of the laws of nature: 

The lasting preservation of a secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen.”

-Wilkie Collins, _No Name_

* * *

 

In all the years you’ve known him, Charles has never appeared this nervous. He hasn’t even touched his _tea._ When he’d requested this meeting after the fight at the pub, you’d picked up on the slightly ominous undertones easily enough. Now that you’re sitting across from him a few days later, it seems more and more like a confession; an admission of some unfathomable sin forced out into the open under duress. 

Logan won’t even look you in the eye.

“You two are seriously creeping me out,” you sigh, squinting in the early morning sun. Charles had arranged to meet in the gardens, on a usually empty patch of gravel surrounded by high hedges. Someone had set up an old wrought iron table and chairs for you with tea service waiting.

“My apologies,” the Professor says, staring blankly at the flower beds across from him. He clears his throat and shifts his full attention to you, which is always a little disconcerting. “I wish this were easier, or rather, I wish it were not necessary at all. Not because I don’t believe you can handle the whole truth of the matter, but because I know the pain it will cause. I would shield you from it if I could, but—"

“She doesn’t have to know all of it, Chuck,” Logan grumbles, his fifth (sixth?) beer held midway to his lips. Noon is still a few hours off.

 “Well _now_ I do.”

“Trust me, you don’t want—"

“That’s enough, Logan,” Charles soothes, his gentle, kind eyes never leaving yours, gauging some unknown metric as he considers how to proceed. “It seems there are certain events that cannot be avoided, only delayed. We gave them time, at least.”

“Maybe,” Logan concedes, finally draining the last of his bottle before putting it down gently on the table.

“Truth is truth to the end of reckoning,” you quote, eyeing them both in turn. “Out with it.”

Charles exhales long and slow and something in his face makes you think of a man facing the executioner’s block, watching the shadow of the ax coming down on his own neck. “In the future of a past that no longer exists,” he says, “in what would have been the year 2023, the world is about to end.”

_What?_

“Fuck,” Logan swears, flicking the cap off of another beer. “We’re really doing this.”

 

* * *

 

“Wait, wait,” you shudder, holding your hands up. You’ve paced a shallow trench in the gravel and your chair is still stuck halfway into the hedges where you’d shoved it with more strength than you’d intended. “You traveled back in _time_? _”_

 _"_ Not exactly. It was just my mind,” Logan shrugs, blocking your path. Apparently your marching has him worried. His hands rest lightly on either of your arms, holding you in place.  You may be panicking a little.

"And you stopped the future extermination of mutants. Fought giant mutant-killing robots built by the government. Rewrote history and created a different timeline, a timeline which we now occupy.”

"We thought we did,” Charles answers softly, still seated at the table. “But it turns out—"

"Don’t you fucking say ‘It isn’t that simple.’ Of _course_ it isn’t that simple. You changed our timeline! You—How _could_ you?”

"They were hunting us,” Logan argues, shaking you slightly. “The last of us. We were cornered in a fucking _hole,_ being slaughtered where we stood. The world was—you can’t even imagine. It wasn’t just mutants either. Regular people were being kept in pens, left to starve. The entire planet was wrecked, a wasteland, uninhabitable. We did what we had to do.” 

“Fine,” you spit. “Fine, I can accept that. But you went back again. And again. And _again_. Adjusting things, fixing what you thought were mistakes.” 

“Because no matter what we did—"

“And that wasn’t a clue?! Some things can’t _be_ fixed, Logan!”

“We thought,” Charles interrupts, “that there was a way to keep us safe, that there had to be if we just did everything right. You cannot possibly appreciate the burden Logan took upon himself to continue going back. Losing people every time. Making choices that meant never meeting some of our closest allies, friends, lovers. The things he had to do to secure our safety meant some of those same people no longer exist.” 

“I had a daughter,” Logan says, his voice breaking. “In one future, I had a daughter, or close enough. She—they were hunting her, too. Everyone was gone. We—I tried to keep her safe, but—" He abruptly lets go of you, pushes you back with unrestrained anger before stalking away, claws exploding from his knuckles in a flash of blood and bright silver.

“He died,” Charles whispers as you stand in your long divot of dirt, watching your mentor go, feeling your heart in your throat. “Kitty managed to pull him out but we almost lost him.”

“You said he was going _back_ in time. That was a future he was talking about. And since when can Shadowcat do any of this?” 

“At first, yes, she moved his mind through time. We call the ability _chronoskimming_ , a powerful secondary mutation.  But there was always some other crisis, some other terrible event that we hadn’t anticipated, couldn’t anticipate. We had very limited information to work with, and Logan often had to make snap decisions with whatever situation he woke up to after he was sent back. Then Kitty came up with an idea that changed everything; she wanted to try to phase Logan’s mind not just through time, but through _space-time_ , to other versions of reality that exist alongside ours. If we could observe those mirror-worlds, we could make better choices in our timeline, perhaps coax events to more closely resemble a world where mutants co-exist peacefully with the rest of humanity.” 

“That’s wildly irresponsible, Charles,” you hiss, staring at him in disbelief. “You were sewing chaos, swinging sledgehammers at the foundations of reality like the potential consequences weren’t universe-ending. _Who the fuck gave you the right?_ ”

“No one,” he admits. “I took that right because I had no other choice.”

“Oh, horseshit,” you swear, slapping your teacup off the table and sending it across the gravel path where it shatters into a hundred pieces. 

“They were pushing us to extinction.”

“That’s part of the natural cycle of things,” you argue. “Species go extinct.” 

“This was a holocaust!” he shouts, and for a moment it looks like he’s trying to stand from his wheelchair, so angry that you feel his mind pressing on yours; a vast, terrible weight that seems as inevitable, as undeniable as the pull of the moon on the tides. “I will not, cannot, allow that to happen!”

You both stare at each other for a long time, jaws clenched, each waiting for the other to break and back down. Never before have you questioned the morality of the man who practically raised you, who you’ve always looked to for guidance; your own ever-fixed star. You question that trust now; doubt it's strength, the permanence of its light.

“Why are you telling me this?” you ask, voice barely more than a whisper. 

“So you understand,” he answers. “Because you are one of those unknown elements we couldn’t anticipate, that we did not see coming, and Logan will not go back again. Not after he lost Laura.”

“His daughter,” you guess. “Is she alive, or—or does she even exist in this timeline?”

Charles looks away.

“Jesus Christ,” you exhale, all the anger swallowed by sorrow for your friend, for what he’s lost without ever really having it in the first place. You wander back to the table, mind racing, and rest your palms against the intricate swirls of iron, relying on the sturdy solidness of the table to support you.

“That last time,” the Professor continues, grief heavy in his own voice. “It almost broke him. He couldn’t do it again and I couldn’t ask him to. He’s the only one who has direct memories of our original timelines and of the other realities he visited. When he’d return to us, he would explain what we’d done and I would use my own abilities to confirm the truth of his claims. As far as we know, he’s uniquely capable of surviving the process.” 

“Who else knows? In this version of things?"

“Kitty, obviously. Myself and Logan, Jean, Scott, Hank, and Ororo. We brought it to them once we’d agreed to stop.”

You retrieve your chair and right it, falling heavily into the seat and resting your head in your palms, elbows braced against your knees. You feel sick. 

“I’ve kept us hidden, and Erik has exiled himself to his island, afraid that if we worked together as we had in other realities, other times, it would only make things worse. But we haven’t done _nothing_. We’ve been funneling all the money and influence available to us into projects that have slowly introduced exceptional people to the public. People they would have an easier time accepting, always hoping that one day we could stand alongside them, that we’d finally found a way.” 

“Pulling strings like the fucking Illuminati, the two of you. Are you trying to tell me you’re behind The Avengers initiative?”

Charles frowns and looks away from you again. “I made suggestions. There needed to be a public team out there, doing the work that needed to be done, but it couldn’t be the X-Men. The world wasn’t ready. It may never be ready.”

“Why do you think that?” you ask, exasperated. “They’ve embraced Stark and Rogers. They even cheer for the Hulk. Why are you so sure they’d hate us?”

“Because they always do,” he answers. “There is something about the mutation of their fellow human beings, of our _becoming_ something more without choosing to build a suit, or undergo an experiment, that repulses them, terrifies them.”

“I’m not going to go back to hiding, to covert missions where the most we do is mitigate damage before slinking off into the shadows again. I need to be part of what’s going on in the world. If this was an attempt to frighten or guilt me back into line, it failed.”

“I know,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning up ever-so-slightly. “As I said, you’re the wild card. You and Ana both, though I think we have a few more years before we need to start worrying about her. You were always the rebellious one. Regardless, I needed you to understand what is at stake and why, going forward, we aren’t going to be involved in what you choose to do.” 

“They have to come first,” you nod, gesturing to the campus spread out around you. “They have to be protected.”

“As I said the other morning, I think the days when that safety depends on the secrecy of our existence are numbered.”

“Then come with me to the Tower. Talk to Stark. We can figure out a way to—"

“No,” Charles says with a shake of his head. “They still aren’t ready. But soon. Soon they won’t have a choice and neither will we.”

You shiver. “What do you know?” you ask, eyes narrowing. There had been something in his voice, or in the air, something that felt like prophecy and it has your hackles up. 

“Nothing,” he says. “Just a feeling.  A gut instinct, and someone I know is often telling me to listen to those.”

 

* * *

 

You find Logan sitting on the dock that juts out over the property’s small lake, the boathouse nestled into the willows and evergreens off to the left. He has a half-finished bottle of whiskey next to him, fingers flexing against the neck. 

“Hey,” you call, waiting for either an invitation or a ‘fuck off’ before making another move. He holds out the bottle in your direction.

Invitation, then.

You settle down next to the short, stocky man with the wild hair and permanent scowl. The offered whiskey is cheap and burns, but you drink because that’s what he wants from you, that’s the entry fee to the funeral for the life he never got to have.

A small flock of geese, no more than five individuals, settles onto the lake, disturbing the surface in a blossom of ripples. They shiver their tails and dunk their long necks under water, then pop back up to shake the droplets free. They look happy. They’ll be headed south at the end of fall, fattened on summer grass. You’re always sad to see them go, even if they're mean as hell and shit everywhere.

“Leaves will be changing sooner than I'd like,” you prod, squinting again as you look up into the deep green canopy that arches overhead. Logan grunts and takes back the bottle, lifting it as if to drink again before changing his mind and putting it down on the weathered boards of the dock.

“Lensherr was the one who found the Valkyrie,” he finally says, his voice rough from the alcohol or his grief or both. “Did Chuck tell you that?”

“No,” you sigh. “But I suppose that makes sense, in the way that nothing Erik Lensherr does actually makes sense except to him.”

“Had a soft spot for the Commandos,” Logan shrugs. “Being in the camps and all. I don’t think it ever sat right with him that Rogers wasn’t brought home. Barnes either, probably, but that plane had some weird magnetic signature he figured out how to track. Called Chuck about it, an’ Chuck got Fury pointed in the right direction.” 

You nod and pull the bottle back to you, taking another long swallow. It doesn’t burn as much this time and you allow the false warmth to spread through your chest. 

“She held my hand while I died,” he says, fingers digging against the wood beneath them now that he doesn't have the bottle to occupy himself. “In the middle of some shitty forest. Her name was Laura.”

You don’t say that Charles already told you her name. Instead, you lean your head against his shoulder and wedge your fingers between his, rubbing your thumb against the back of his hand until the tension there drains away.

“Tell me about her.”

 

* * *

  

“But for the _whole_ summer?” Ana whines, standing in the middle of your room as you pack. “What about our roadtrip to California?”

“I said no to that,” you huff, neatly folding another pair of jeans before placing them into the open Samsonite waiting on the bed. 

“Yeah, but not before  _I_ tabled it for future discussion.”

“And we’re revisiting the subject now. _No_.”

“Then let me come with you to the Tower,” she says, poking at the contents of your luggage. “I’m sure you could arrange, like, a summer internship or whatever for me.”

“You’re not old enough for an internship.”

“A summer job? I can sort mail or deliver messages or—"

“Stare at Steve Rogers and make a fool of yourself.”

She flips you the bird. “This isn’t fair,” she sulks. “What am I even supposed to do for the whole summer?” 

“Hang out with your friends in the obscenely large and opulent mansion you live in, go swimming in the private lake on the property, float aimlessly in one of the very beautiful pools on the grounds, take tennis lessons, go horseback riding, _play chess_ ,” you snipe, shooting her some serious side-eye.

“You make it sound like I’m spoiled,” she sighs. “It’s almost as if you got so old you forgot what it’s like to be a teenager.”

“Out,” you bark, pointing to the adjoining door between your rooms.

“Fine,” she shouts back. “At least I’m not the one choosing my boyfriend over my own sister!” She slams the door behind her.

You take a deep breath and continue packing. You’ll come up with an easily digestible reason why you can’t— _can’t_ — stay at the mansion right now, maybe not ever again. You just have to figure out what lie to tell so that she believes it, that it’s understandable, even agreeable that you resign your post and your spot on the team.

The truth isn’t something she needs to know.

 

* * *

                

“I’m going to program your team name into the Quinjet security systems right now,” Stark says over the phone, giddy as a school boy after you tell him your plans. He’s sending a car with a motorcycle trailer for the Ducati to pick you up.

 

“Fine. It’s Hel—"

 

“H-E-R-M-I-O-N-E,” he spells out, and you could smack the facial hair right off of him.

 

* * *

 

“Is this going to be okay?” you ask, looking up at Barnes as he rides the elevator with you to your new apartment. “I know you kept saying you wanted—"

 

He shakes his head, smiling, and takes your hand in his. “Best news I’ve gotten in a long, long time, Doll. Maybe when you’re ready, you’ll tell me what changed.”

 

“Yeah,” you agree. “It’s a trip, to be sure. I just… I had to choose.”

 

“You chose right,” he says, getting ready to step out onto your floor as the doors slide open. “I don’t know what their reasons are for hiding out up there in Westchester, wherever else they are, and you don’t ever have to tell me if you don’t want to. Their reasons are their own. Yours are yours. But I know you, kid,” he says, tilting your chin up with his good hand. “Whatever your reasons are, _you chose right_.”

 

“God I hope so,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut as he leans down to press a light kiss against your lips.

 

“Welcome to Avengers Tower, Helix,” JARVIS chimes. “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've scattered a few more Easter eggs for comic fans as well; hope you guys enjoy them!
> 
> Your mutant name is Helix.
> 
> Welcome to the Avengers.


	20. Chapter 20

“Look where we will, the inevitable law of revelation is one of the laws of nature: 

The lasting preservation of a secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen.”

-Wilkie Collins,  _No Name_  

 

* * *

  

“So time travel is a thing,” Natasha says, shifting her bag gloves slightly to the left. The rhythmic _whap! whap!_ of your taped fists hitting the synthetic leather keeps you grounded as you relate the whole bizarre tale to her in the team’s private gym.

“Apparently, though I’m still struggling to make sense of how it works,” you grunt, cycling through a few more combinations. _One, one, two. One, six, three, two._ Natasha raises a brow but waits for you to dance back from her, patient as a stalking cat. She resets her stance, holds the gloves up again and nods her head.  _Ready_.

“I’m not sure _what_ they did, exactly. The science behind the meta-universe theory is controversial, in that a lot of scientists don’t believe it’s even a legitimate topic of inquiry – how do you falsify a theory that effectively accounts for all possible outcomes? I’m sure Tony would provide more insight, but he’d probably start thinking of a hundred ways to weaponize the process while considering the implication for theoretical physics, so… God, it makes my head hurt just thinking about it.”

_Jab, cross, left uppercut, cross._

“Where does that leave you?”

“Adrift,” you laugh. “Here, with the rest of you miscreants.”

Natasha smiles her lopsided smile. “Change up,” she says. “Surprise me. You’re not the only one training.”

You snort, and break the routine, throwing a brutal right cross followed by two quick jabs with your left. She blocks those easily enough, but isn’t ready for your knee when you bring it up into her stomach. She folds but keeps her footing, stumbling back.

“Dirty,” she croaks. “Ебена мать! How do you move that fast?”

“I have better reflexes than you, even when I’m not trying,” you shrug, shaking out your arms. “That’s not boasting, just biology. My mutation automatically creates a system that fosters quicker communication between synapses, and promotes more efficient muscle structure. Helps that I’ve been in a lot of fights, too.”

“So have I,” she wheezes. “I can usually guess where the next hit is coming from based on body language. But you’re blank. I can’t read you.”

Well of course she can’t. That’s kind of the point. But how can you articulate the unconscious access you have to the hardwired instincts of countless species? Even when you’re still _you_ , you’re also _them_ , all the time. The thought of being without them, to live the way she does, seems like living half asleep, cut off from what is as vital to you as breathing. You don’t physically broadcast your intentions in a fight because a leopard who gives his prey even the slightest advantage is a leopard who starves.

“Break?” you ask, not bothering to explain any further.

“Break,” she nods, dropping the gloves to the mat. Natasha doesn’t press when you don’t feel like sharing, which is one of the things you like best about her. She understands better than most that not everything in a person’s head needs to be said out loud. She doesn’t make it personal.

“Anyway,” you huff, leaning against the ropes on your side of the ring. “I couldn’t stay. I get why they did what they did, but I can’t look at any of them without feeling like my head is going to explode. I’m angry and disappointed, and I’m not sure what any of us can do to repair the damage that’s been done.”

“Why angry?” she asks between pulls from her water bottle. “You said they were trying to avert the apocalypse. Seems like a good reason to meddle.”

“No, I get that. That first time, when their backs were literally against the wall, they did what they had to. They found a way to win. Logan woke up and the world was more-or-less set to rights. But they blew it, Natasha. They stumbled right into another calamity and made it worse. It’s like no matter what they do, the universe snaps back to its original shape, or close enough.”

“So you think mutants are predestined for extinction?”

“Maybe,” you sigh. “But that isn’t particularly remarkable from a natural history perspective. Entire geologic epochs have ended in mass extinctions. A single branch of humanity being snuffed out is barely a footnote in the record of life on Earth. Why are we any more special than the Neanderthals?”

“But it sounds like these extinction events didn’t just bring disaster for mutants,” Natasha reminds you, tossing the water bottle your way. You catch it with one hand and take a few deep swallows. “Forgive me for sounding selfish, but we go down with you more often than not. I’m all for meddling if that’s the case.”

“Look, nature is in a constant state of recovery from the last disaster,” you tell her. “The idea of a state of equilibrium in the context of the natural world is a fairy tale. The only reason we’re even here is because most of the species from an entire taxonomic clade were wiped out by an asteroid the size of Texas.

“Nature isn’t some benign, loving deity trying to protect us. Nature is a complicated system of sometimes completely unrelated and _always_ indifferent forces throwing whatever is available against the wall and seeing what sticks. So maybe what I’m saying is we’re all slated for the scrapyard and whether or not it’s _fair_ is irrelevant.”

“Oh my god,” Natasha groans. “I need a drink.” 

“Sorry,” you smirk, pushing away from the ropes. “Too dark?” 

“Well I’m Russian, so I can appreciate your existential crisis better than most,” she says. “But I think you’re being too hard on your family. You’re trying to examine what was a very emotional set of decisions through a wholly unemotional lens.” 

You roll your eyes and pull the ropes apart, ducking between them and dropping off the platform to the gym floor. “What happened when Loki showed up with his alien army and his stupid sky-whales?” you ask, beginning to peel the tape from your knuckles. 

“We fought back,” Natasha answers simply. “We won.” 

“Wrong,” you shake your head, dropping the long pieces of athletic tape into the trash. You don’t actually need the extra protection, but you appreciate the ritual of the boxing ring so the tape goes on every time out of respect. “ _You_ won. We hid. What happens when the next Big Bad shows up and suddenly Xavier and the X-Men decide it’s time to pitch in and help?” 

“We fight back, we win, and you guys get to join the parade.” 

“ _No_ ,” you insist. “No, that’s not how it goes. We come out, we fight the good fight, beat the bad guys, and the first question out of people’s mouths isn’t ‘So what do we call you?’ or ‘How do your powers work?’ It’s ‘Where have you _been_?’” 

“That’s –” 

“It’s a fair question, Nat. Where were we? What were we doing?” You head toward the showers, the Widow following just behind. “We spent all this time trying to protect our single hardscrabble acre while the rest of the farm burned down, and that isn’t going to endear us to anyone. So maybe my being here will soften that reaction when it comes. Maybe having _one_ mutant shed a little blood on behalf of the world beyond Westchester, and Muir Island, and goddamned _Genosha_ , will convince the mob to give us a shot. But if I’m wrong and the general public wants to hang me for a witch at the end of this, at least I pulled my weight. I did what I could with the gifts I’ve been given. If we want the world to turn out a certain way, we have to force it into compliance. Survival is an act of will.” 

“You sound like Tony,” she says, her tone thoughtful. 

“Don’t be vulgar,” you scowl. “I don’t mean to preach.  I think I’m still trying to make sense of all this and talking about it is helping to sort through the mess. I still haven’t explained anything to Ana; she’s been texting me nonstop with questions I don’t know how to answer. How do I put this in perspective for her when it I can barely wrap my own head around it?” 

“She’s a kid,” Natasha shrugs. “Lie.” 

“That doesn’t seem like a good way to maintain a healthy relationship with my little sister.” 

“I was an only child.”

 

* * *

 

You take your time in the shower, letting the hot water seep into your skin and muscles, down into the marrow of your bones. Natasha asked you to meet her for lunch later in one of the restaurants in the Tower, but it’s still early so there’s no need to rush, and Barnes will be in a therapy session all morning. He mentioned wanting to train for a little while with Steve later.  You’d tried to needle him into sparring with you instead, but he’d made noises about hitting women and had looked wounded over it, so you let it go. 

You’ll get him in the ring eventually, and you’ll push him if only to prove he doesn’t need to worry about you so much, that he doesn’t have to rush his recovery just to watch your back in the field. He doesn’t ever have to step foot in the field again if he doesn’t want to. 

Natasha had ducked out of the locker room while you were still stripping out of your sweaty clothes, and you’re pretty sure (positive) it was Barton waiting for her out in the hall. They seem close, but you sort of remember being told the archer is married with kids. You know that doesn’t necessarily mean he isn’t getting any on the side, but somehow that doesn’t strike you as something Natasha would do. At least not to someone she cares about. 

In the open locker where most of your clothes are still hanging, your phone begins to vibrate, rattling against the metal at an extremely unpleasant pitch. Towel around your hips, you snatch it from the shelf and check the ID, expecting to see Ana’s name and number. 

 _No Caller ID._  

You let it go to voicemail, and then play back the recording as soon as it’s available. 

“ _Um, hi? Hello?_ ” 

A male voice, one you don’t recognize. 

“ _Pete Castiglione told me to call this number and leave a message. He, um, wants to meet with you. Pier 97. Okay, you happy now, bro? Can I –”_

The message cuts off there, but you get the picture. 

“Pete” is one of Frank’s aliases, adopted almost immediately after he left Metro-General a few years back, convinced that someone had been trying to kill him even while he was comatose. That was still part of his self-appointed mission statement; to discover who had been trying so hard to make sure he never left his hospital bed and _why_ , and it made a certain kind of sense that there might be facts backing up his paranoia, considering how he ended up in the hospital in the first place. The DNR issued for him by the district attorney’s office was highly suspect all on its own. 

He’d gone to ground shortly after that, occupying his days gathering intel and trying to make sense of what had happened to his life. You’d argued with him about his obsession once and _only_ once, before you’d known about his wife and kids, when Frank Castle was still just a loner weirdo with a pronounced gun fetish and a hard-on for putting the hurt on bad guys.  You pointed out that sometimes really awful shit happens to people and there isn’t a convenient conspiracy to blame, and maybe he should get on with his life. 

He’d lost it. Frank had a way of shouting that reminded you of a bear on a rampage; a deep, guttural, inhuman sound that you felt in your teeth and in your gut, way back in your hindbrain where threats are quickly categorized as survivable or _not_ survivable. 

Frank in a rage qualified as one of the latter examples, so you made your escape and tried to forget all about him. 

Less than a year later, Weasel had sent you an email with a heads up – a couple of his regulars at Sister Margaret’s had been talking about a guy matching Frank’s description, and the chatter seemed to point to bad news for the former Marine. 

   

 

 

> _H –_
> 
> _Your dumbfuck spec ops friend is wormfood. He’s in Queens, go get him._
> 
> _12 th Ave and Burton. Don’t ask me how I know or why I care._
> 
> _-JH_
> 
> _PS: Wade told me._
> 
> _PPS: He says it wasn’t his fault and please don’t hurt him. Unless you’re into that sort of thing in which case his safe word is “pineapple.” No watersports. That’s a hard limit._

 

You found Castle in the half-flooded basement of the shitty apartment building Weasel had listed, a foot in the grave and crackling with fever.  That was the first time you’d shifted into your best approximation of Maria Castle’s form, and – strangely – when you had become someone he started to rely on and trust. Or, at the very least, _not_ someone he would immediately shoot for snooping around his underground lair. Small miracles. 

You finish drying off and dressing, then ask JARVIS to have the Ducati pulled around for you. When Frank Castle asks for a meeting, it’s best not to dally.

 

* * *

 

You send a quick text to Barnes, letting him know you’re headed to Hell’s Kitchen to talk to your source. He’ll keep the information close to the vest, strictly need-to-know, without your needing to say so. After mulling it over for a full minute, you send the same text to Maria Hill. She texts back immediately. 

 _I can set up a tail. Very discrete. Your guy will never know._

You send her twenty angry-face emojis and a middle finger for good measure. 

 _Charming_. _Text 911 if things go south. We can be there in minutes_. 

You slip your phone into your backpack and take the Superleggera from the garage attendant. It’s been polished, lubricated, synchronized, and fussed over by Tony’s vehicle maintenance crew who have babied the machine as if it were a living thing. Gearheads are a weird crowd. 

You take West 42nd to 10th Avenue, irritated by the slow crawl of traffic. That eases up a little once you turn onto West 59th, zipping past a Duane Reade, and John Jay College, then under the 12th Avenue overpass and finally out to the pier, where the city’s perpetually bracketed sky opens up to a field of blue, broken only by the gray slice of the Hudson River, Weehawken standing watch on the opposite shore. 

You throttle down and find a spot to park off the Greenway, check your phone for any messages, then head out onto the dock. 

You spot Frank almost immediately. He’s wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans, worn work boots with the laces neatly tied. A Yankees cap is pulled down over his eyes, the crooked lump of his nose still managing to catch some sunlight. He hands you a cup of coffee when you draw up next to him, then motions for you to follow as he walks the length of the pier. 

“Think I may have a lead on your guy,” Frank says, looking out into the choppy water. He stops a few feet from the end of the walkway and leans on the metal railing, making like he’s there to watch the gulls catch their breakfast. 

“That didn’t take long,” you observe, putting your back to the same railing and looking at the oil slick floating on the top of your coffee. “Did you spend actual money on this? I think it may be toxic.” 

 He passes you an envelope and continues to stare out at the water. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, tucking it inside your backpack. You’ll go through the contents later, in the safety and privacy of the tower. 

He nods and sips the environmental contaminant in his cup.  You take a careful look at him sidelong, chewing on your bottom lip. Where it peeks out from under the cap, the hair on both sides of his head has been shaved short, and not a stray whisker can be found on his chin, cheeks, or around his mouth. There’s something settled in his eyes, his shoulders. To anyone else, he might look relaxed, but you know better. He’s holding his weight low in his belly and hips, balanced and ready. 

 _Christ._ _Here we go._  

“You look like shit.” A lie, but a provocative one, you hope. 

“We can’t all be pretty.” 

“What’re you up to?” you ask, dumping your cup of swill into the river. A gull zeroes in on the splash and hovers over the water hoping for a prize before flapping off, crying its disappointment to the rest of the flock. 

“The info I got for you isn’t much, but I’m on a tight schedule. Not gonna be reachable for a while.” 

“Frank.” 

He swallows the last of the coffee before crushing the paper-and-wax cup. “No matter what you see or hear, I don’t want you rushing in to help. You stay out of this.” 

You let out the breath you weren’t aware you’d been holding, information slotting into place, obvious and undeniable. “You know what happened. You found them.” 

“Not all of them. But most. Enough, maybe.” 

“Jesus Christ,” you tilt your head back, watching the chaotic pinwheeling of the birds overhead. It’s been a long time since you’ve flown under the power of your own wings. “This isn’t going to bring your wife and kids back. You know that, right?” 

He squeezes the remains of his cup a little tighter, then chucks it into the water. 

“Nice talkin’ to you,” he says, his voice tight but steady. He pushes off the railing and heads back towards the street. “Good hunting.” 

“There’s nothing noble about a suicide mission, soldier,” you say to his back, angry with him for how little he values his own life. 

“Says you,” he answers without stopping his steady march. “See you around, hero.” 

You let him go. 

 

* * *

 

“This is a good start,” Natasha says. “We can definitely work with this.” 

A few hours after the meeting with Castle, you’re back at Avengers Tower, picking over the remains of lunch while Romanoff goes through the contents of the envelope. 

“I still think it’s weird that they’re operating out of Canada,” you say, shoveling the last of your lamb _koshary_ into your mouth. “I mean, it’s _Canada_.” 

“Remote area, no roads in or out. It’s a fallback position, and they’ve definitely fallen back after the Triskelion. If the crew that sprang the trap at McSorley’s is associated with this place,” she says, tapping the topographic map spread out on her side of the table, “then we should definitely check it out.” 

“Gonna run this past Stark?” 

She tilts her head to the side, considering your question. “He’ll want to introduce the Great White North to Jericho if we do,” she says. “Tony doesn’t do subtle.” 

“That makes no sense,” you sigh, pushing your plate back. 

“It’s a missile system,” she mutters, refolding the map and putting it to the side. “My jokes don’t always land.”

“So we don’t go to Tony? He might take it to heart if we continue to cut him out of our plans.” 

“You worried about his feelings?” 

“Well he’s so fragile,” you snicker. The wind out on the terrace picks up, ruffling the sheets of data, maps, and accumulated rumors that Frank assembled for you. The restaurant, a Middle Eastern gem that Stark transplanted from Sutton Place, will probably be the first in the Tower to earn a Michelin star. 

“I think you and I should go. Covert ops, just recon. No offensive action. We can let Hill know in case the situation on the ground changes.” 

“It always does.” 

“Yeah, I can quote von Moltke too,” she says. “If Hill gives us the thumbs up, at least Tony can’t be too upset when he finds out. His biggest gripe about what happened in the Village was that we didn’t tell Maria what we were doing.” 

“We can take one of the Quinjets up there, they have the range,” you say aloud, feeling the smoke in your head begin to coalesce into a plan. “Tungsten is the closest town, if you can call it that. They have an airstrip on the opposite side of the range, so there has to be some infrastructure, but Nááts'įhch'oh is remote even for the Northwest Territories.” 

“NATS-ee-cho,” Natasha mimics, rolling the Dene name around in her mouth. 

“Means ‘stands like a porcupine,’” you tell her. “Appropriate considering the geography. So we drop in at Crescent Peak and approach Trident from the south. According to our intel, the fallback position is inside a glacial valley between Trident and Ziegeberg to the northwest. We get within a mile or two so you can cover me with a scoped rifle, and I’ll make the final approach.” 

“What would blend in up there?” 

“Plenty of large- and medium-bodied raptors. Gyrfalcon would be my pick. They’re multi-purpose and can still hit well over 130 miles per hour in a stoop, so I can move if I have to. If we go for night ops, a Snowy or Long-Eared owl would do.” 

“If you need to get closer than aerial observation is capable of?” she asks, sitting back in her chair, hands folded in her lap. She’s enjoying this more than she ought to. 

“Something small that wouldn’t be noticed. _Peromyscus maniculatus_ , North American deermouse. Their metabolism is a pain to manage, but they’re mostly made of cartilage so I can squeeze through tiny gaps to get where I need to be.” 

“This is so great,” she says, finally unable to keep her grin in check. 

You roll your eyes and pick up your glass of water, tilting it toward her. “To espionage,” you toast. 

“To the start of a beautiful friendship,” Natasha laughs, clinking her glass against yours. 

For some reason, Natasha’s warm words and enthusiasm do nothing to ease the prickle of disquiet creeping down your spine. Something feels off, like you’re missing a clue that should be obvious, that _is_ obvious. You go over the plan again, knowing it needs a lot more development, but unable to find any glaring omissions that would explain why your instincts have you feeling so wary. 

 _New team_ , you tell yourself. _Hashing out a recon mission over_ brunch _isn’t how we did things back home. Maybe that’s it._  

“I think a week to prep and consult with Hill will be enough time before we launch,” Natasha says, pulling out her phone and thumbing through her calendar. “It’ll be nice to do this sort of thing with someone other than Clint for once.” 

You force a smile and finish your glass of water. A week, and then there’s no going back. You’ll be an Avenger in name _and_ deed. 

 _Onward and upward_ , you tell yourself, swallowing around the lump in your throat. _Excelsior._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian-to-English translation:
> 
> "Ебена мать!" : Damn it!/I'll be damned!
> 
> \---
> 
> Merry Christmas, nerds! ❤
> 
> Side note, because I've been asked on tumblr recently: No, the timeline in this story isn't going to match up exactly with the established MCU. Let's go ahead and call this a mirror-universe after all. Things should follow a similar sequence of events, but there's no way I can tell my own (your own) story without shuffling things around a little bit. Hope that doesn't bother anyone. Sorry for the short chapters, but they're much easier for me to manage with my work schedule and personal life (I'm getting married! Yay me!)
> 
> I have some original fiction I'll be posting here on AO3 as well. Check out "The Devil You Know" if you have the time and inclination.


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